The Mentalist: Father Patrick
by Donnamour1969
Summary: It is Christmas, 1995, and Patrick Jane has left his no-good father in search of his own adventures. Little did he expect his first would be impersonating a priest in the small town of Cannon River, Washington, or that he would fall for one of the church's most devoted parishioners, Officer Teresa Lisbon. Talk about your pickles...AU/Romance/Drama/Humor. Rated T/M for adult content
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Lately I've been obsessed with the Patrick Jane of old, and the timeless idea of his redemption. We know how the Red John saga went, so it is interesting for me to explore what his life might have been without the weight of a dead family and a serial killer. Being a conman would have troubles enough. So this is a younger Jane of 24, and I've warped time a bit by making Grace, Cho, and Lisbon all around his same age, but I hope I kept their personalities intact.

I know I'm dipping into dangerous waters with this one, but any mistakes I make regarding Catholicism are unintentional and not meant to offend. I am not Catholic, but I have sought advice from one (she knows who she is), and I offer her my sincere thanks. I hope you like what I've done here.

 **Father Patrick**

 **Chapter 1**

 ** _Los Angeles, 1995_**

The bedside phone rang shrilly in the night, and Patrick Jane fumbled in the dark for the receiver, his heart pounding at the rude awakening.

"They're comin' for ya, Paddy," came his father's harsh whisper.

"Jesus, Dad," he replied, sitting up and reaching for the lamp. "What the hell?"

As light flooded the cheap motel room, Jane's sleep-fogged brain came to the slow conclusion that his father's voice was in fact speaking directly into his ear, and not from the other full-size bed beside him. He also noted in annoyance that it was three a.m.

"You heard me, boy. The jig is up. I suggest you hightail it out of there and head north before they get the hot tar ready. Better we split up. I'll meet you in Portland at the usual place."

Fully awake now, Jane glared into the phone. "You slept with her, didn't you?"

"Now, Paddy—"

"Dammit, Dad, you swore you wouldn't do this to me again. You don't sleep with the mark's wife. The deal wasn't even sealed, and now we're out ten grand and a month's work."

"Yeah, yeah, mea culpa and all that. Just get on a bus as soon as you can. I left you some money on the table."

Jane's eyes shot to the small dining table in the kitchenette area. Sure enough, a small pile of wrinkled bills was stacked haphazardly on the Formica. So Alex had planned for this before he'd left their room in the middle of the night. Jane also bet all the older man's belongings would already be gone from the room.

 _I must have been out like a light when he left. Probably shouldn't have had that extra beer…_

"I'll drive the Citroen," his father was saying. "Don't go nuts if I'm not there right away. I have a bit of business to attend to along the way."

 _Yeah, to visit one of the many women he had stashed up and down the West Coast._

"Dad—"

"Bye, Paddy. See ya in a few days."

Jane slammed down the phone. "Son of a bitch!"

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to focus. How many times had his father screwed up a job before they could collect? This wasn't the first time it had been because of a rich mark with dangerous friends and a pretty wife. But damned if it wouldn't be the last, he vowed.

As he got out of bed and went to the closet for his jeans and button-up shirt, he could finally see the writing on the wall: time to go out on his own and leave his father to deal with his own screw-ups. Jane was twenty-four years old; time for the little bird to leave the nest before he ended up dead or in prison because of his father's lack of self-control. Jane felt confident that he could run his own scams easily enough, and he imagined how uncomplicated his life would become without his father running the show. More money for him, too, he thought, counting the paltry pile of twenties that was his remaining share of their last gig.

Jane had another hundred in his wallet, and his father expected that would be enough to pay for a cheap motel room in Portland, Oregon? If Alex hadn't lived so high on the hog, they could have saved up enough to live in comfort indefinitely, and not just hand to mouth as they had since they'd quit the carnival circuit two years ago. Yes, Jane was tired of the insecurity of being his father's shill; definitely time to make his own luck as the lead dog.

He tossed his clothes and toiletries into his duffle bag, frowning at the stack of books he'd have to leave behind since he couldn't carry them all on the bus. But there was one thing he _did_ need. When he reached between his mattresses, however, he was horrified to discover his small pistol was gone.

"That's a swell father for you; leaves you nearly broke, hired goons out to get you, with nothing to defend yourself," he griped aloud to the empty room. "Asshole."

 _No way I'm meeting him in Portland_ , he thought. _It's the end of the line for Jane and son._

As an afterthought, he grabbed his dog-eared copy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's _The Complete_ _Sherlock Holmes,_ something to read on the bus. The way Sherlock's mind worked oddly soothed him, and he'd need a lot of soothing while he contemplated his new life of independence.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

About an hour north of Vancouver, Washington, the bus rolled in to the depot of the idyllic town of Cannon River. It was a quaint little village, every small shop festooned with Christmas lights and window displays of Santas and Christmas trees and holiday sale signs. It was eight in the evening, and Jane awoke from his doze when the bus's loud breaks hissed to a stop.

"We're gonna be here for about an hour, folks," said the bus driver over the speaker. "There's a convenience store across the street as well as a truck stop diner if you want a snack or to stretch your legs. Don't be late though; we've got a schedule to keep, and we ain't waitin' for stragglers."

Jane stood, rolling his shoulders and turning his neck to loosen the kinks of ten hours of slumping against the window. He shrugged on his zip-up hooded sweatshirt, slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, and ventured outside behind most of the other passengers. The chill night hit him and he shivered in his inadequate clothing (this was the heaviest outerwear he ever needed in LA). About three-fourths of the disembarking travelers went across the street as the driver had suggested; the rest went down the street toward a bar, Jane among them. A light snow was falling.

The River Rat was a typical small-town dive: dark, smoky, the Wurlitzer playing Lynard Skynard. Two guys played at the single pool table, a rough looking girl manhandled the pinball machine, and the booths and barstools were sporadically filled with early shift drinkers. They all wore the local logging uniform of plaid flannel, heavy jeans, work boots; long johns peeping out from beneath the flannel. One harried waitress brought drinks to the tables and the game area. Jane sat on an empty stool at the bar and got the attention of the attractive bartender.

"Hey, handsome," she said, eyes alight at his blonde good looks. "What can I do for you?" She smirked suggestively, her low-cut tee beneath her unbuttoned red flannel shirt a warm welcome after the coldness outside.

He rewarded her with a dimpled smile. She was momentarily stunned at the effect, and his grin widened.

"Beer, sweetheart," he said. "I'm not picky." And he only had enough money for one.

"Sure thing," she replied, when she could find her tongue. With any other guy, she would have given him a sharp set-down for calling her sweetheart. He noticed, however, that she poured from an expensive bottle but charged him the on-tap price. It certainly wasn't the first time his charm and good looks had gotten him special treatment. He gave her a promising wink but they both knew he promised nothing. He took a sip from the frosted mug and surveyed his surroundings dispassionately while the bartender tended to her other customers. Jane grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl in front of him. His bus station sandwich earlier hadn't been very filling—or appetizing.

A man soon joined him, though Jane didn't recognize him from the bus, and he didn't seem like a local. He was dressed in a dark suit and heavy overcoat, and when he turned toward Jane, he was surprised to see the man wore the white collar of a Catholic priest.

"Padre," Jane nodded, raising his mug slightly before taking another swig.

"Good evening," said the priest. He ordered a scotch rocks, a man about twenty years Jane's senior, his close-cropped hair a light brown, graying at the temples, his face kind and open. He noticed Jane didn't look much like a local either. "Just passing through?"

"Yeah," Jane replied. "You?"

"Nope. I just got into town to start a new job."

Jane raised an ironic eyebrow. "The local sawmill?"

The priest chuckled. "The local parish. I'm Father Patrick, taking over at Saint Andrew's after Father John passed away last month. I was sent here just in time for Christmas Mass in a few days."

Jane shook the priest's outstretched hand. "Nice to meet you. My name's Patrick, too."

"Well, well. Small world. Where you headed, son?"

"Seattle. New job there for me too." He'd bypassed Portland and decided to give Seattle a try. His father would be keenly disappointed when his son and meal ticket didn't show up.

"Oh, really," said Father Patrick, taking a handful of peanuts for himself. "What line of work?"

"Sales," Jane replied, his face completely serious. If he felt a twinge of guilt for lying to a priest, Jane promptly ignored it.

"Aw. I figured a young man like you would still be in college, maybe grad school?"

"Never had the time. Didn't even graduate high school."

The priest frowned. "It's never too late, Patrick."

Jane shrugged and took another drink. "School was never for me. Besides, we travelled a lot." It actually felt good to tell someone the truth for a change, and he supposed that since this was a priest, he felt safe somehow.

"Dad in the service?"

"Something like that." Then he felt the truth slipping from his lips:  
"Carnie circuit."

"How interesting." But when Jane didn't elaborate, the priest looked him straight in the eye. "You can tell me anything, you know, son. I'm a priest."

Jane grinned. "Yeah, funny, I was just thinking that. I usually don't spill my guts to perfect strangers. Must be the collar."

Father Patrick returned his smile. "It does invite people to confess. Sort of the idea. Your father still in your life?"

"No," Jane replied. "Not anymore." He took a healthy draught of beer.

"Aw, Patrick, you should mend your fences while you can. When my father died, we weren't talking. He disapproved of my becoming a priest. I forgave him, but he never wanted to speak to me again. I was his only hope for grandchildren, since my brother died as a teenager. I think my mother died soon after my dad in her despair, though the diagnosis was pancreatic cancer. She just didn't have the will to fight it."

"I'm sorry," said Jane, surprising himself that he meant it. Maybe it was because he didn't look at the priest as a mark. Jane's father had always taught him to look upon _everyone_ as a potential mark; but that was a really crappy way to live, Jane thought bitterly.

"Well the point of my sad tale is that you mustn't shut people out of your life, especially family. You don't want to be alone like me in the world. Though I do have God, and the Church, of course. They are my family now."

"My dad isn't a very nice person," said Jane. _And neither am I._

"We all deserve forgiveness, and second chances."

"Maybe." The priest backed off, sensing that Jane was not in a place to hear this yet; his wounds were still pretty tender.

Suddenly, the priest cringed a little, grabbing his right side. He turned pale.

"Something wrong, Father?"

He blanched, then reached a shaking hand for his scotch.

"It's nothing. It'll pass."

It had been a long time since Jane had actually cared about someone, especially so quickly. Before he could think, he'd put a hand on the older man's shoulder, but Father Patrick was slowly getting off the barstool.

"Excuse me a minute," Father Patrick said, then moved quickly toward the men's room in the back.

Jane watched him go, then glanced at the beer-themed clock above the bar. He had about thirty-five minutes till the bus left. Another ten minutes passed, and when the priest didn't return, Jane didn't allow himself to think, but picked up his duffle from the floor and followed the priest into the restroom. One stall door was closed, the dark overcoat slung over it. Jane could hear a man breathing heavily on the other side.

"Father Patrick?" Jane said. "You okay?"

"Uh…I'm not sure," he said through the door. "Can I ask you a big favor, son? I—I'm not feeling so good. Could you drive me to the hospital? I passed one on the way into town."

"Well, my bus is going to leave in a few minutes. Let me call you an ambulance."

"No-no. Ambulances are expensive. I—I just need to get to the emergency room. If you do this for me, I'll drive you wherever you want to go tomorrow, I promise."

Jane considered. He wasn't really in a hurry to get to Seattle, and besides, the idea of climbing back onto the drafty bus was as appetizing as that tuna salad from earlier.

"Okay. You uh, need some help in there?"

"No, I…just a minute." About two minutes later, the door slammed open, and Father Patrick emerged, his face covered with sweat, his now collar-less shirt unbuttoned. He looked like he was about to pass out, and Jane instinctively rushed to his aide.

"Lean on me, Father," he said. He grabbed the priest's coat and draped it around his shoulders, then helped him out the restroom door. Another passenger from the bus passed them and recognized Jane as a fellow traveler.

"The driver's just blown his horn. We got ten minutes."

"Yeah, well, don't wait for me."

"Okay. See ya."

Jane walked the priest out, steadying the man as best he could. They were the same height, with similar slim builds, but it was still awkward, what with his duffle bag and the full weight of the man leaning on him. There was a rear exit, and rather than make a scene going through the bar area, Jane opened the door, and they stumbled out into the alley.

"My keys are in my coat pocket," said Father Patrick, his voice tight with pain. "The white Honda Civic parked on the west side." It was about the same distance as it would have been going out the front door, and Jane was glad he'd chosen this route. The alley was empty of people and so it was faster going than had they had to dodge pool players and half-drunken patrons, though Father Patrick had to stop often to lean forward and clutch at his abdomen. Once, he even vomited on the snowy pavement.

Finally, they made it to the car and Jane settled him into the passenger's side. He tossed his duffle in the back seat of the economy vehicle, then got in and backed out into the quiet street.

"Drive back north," muttered Father Patrick. "The hospital's about a mile out of town."

"Okay."

They stopped at the town's single stoplight, and the only sound that filled the car was the priest's labored breathing.

"You a Catholic, Patrick?" he asked Jane. He was obviously trying to get his mind off the pain, and maybe pick up a new soul while he was at it.

Jane laughed dryly. "Are you guys ever off work? Well, my mother was Catholic, and I was baptized in the Church, but I haven't set foot inside one in fifteen years. Not since my mother died."

"You have a good heart, Patrick; I could tell the moment I saw you."

"Looks are deceiving, Father," he said wryly, for already Jane was thinking about how he would drop off the priest at the hospital and take his car on to Seattle.

A few minutes later, Jane drove up to the emergency room entrance and stopped. He looked over at the priest, who had gone silent once they'd driven past the stoplight. The man was out cold.

"Father?" Jane shook his shoulder, but there was no response. He got out of the car and ran into the ER.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane sat in the waiting room reading a six-month old copy of _Time_ magazine, wondering why he was still there. Twenty minutes after they rushed Father Patrick by gurney into the operating room, the woman from the reception desk came over to speak to him.

"I have some paperwork for you to fill out about your dad," she said, handing him a clipboard.

 _She must have heard me call him Father._

"Oh, and here are his things," she said, handing him a white plastic bag. By its heft, Jane figured it was the priest's suit and shoes.

"Do you have his insurance card?" the receptionist asked.

"No."

"Well, okay. We'll work that out later. Just fill in what you can on these forms and bring them back to me."

Jane stared blankly at the empty spaces of the document. He sighed, tapping the pen absently against the clipboard. Plan B could be that he waited the next morning for another bus to roll through town. Maybe they would still honor today's ticket. If not, he was down to his last fifty bucks, stuck in Nowhereseville, Washington for the foreseeable future. No, he thought, he would stick to Plan A.

Jane sighed and set down the forms on the small lamp table, still completely blank.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

"…your father's appendix ruptured," said the doctor an hour later. "We removed it, but I'm afraid he became septic, and has lapsed into a coma. We're doing all we can, pumping him with antibiotics and fluids. There's a chance we can stave off septic shock, but we'll just have to watch him for now."

"Okay," said Jane evenly. "Thanks."

After the doctor left, Jane sat in the uncomfortable chair of the waiting room, absently sipping the hot tea he'd gotten from a vending machine. It tasted just as you would expect hot tea in a hospital waiting room would taste. He grimaced, then rose, the weight of the priest's keys in his pocket. He could still leave. Father Patrick had all but said he had no relatives, but eventually the church would figure out what happened to him. After a few days without their new priest showing up, they would check the area hospitals. By then, Jane would have gotten a message to the church telling them where he'd abandoned Father Patrick's car; then it wouldn't be stealing, not really. Just borrowing. The priest had promised Jane he'd take him wherever he needed to go, after all. He was sure Father Patrick would verify this—if the man survived, that is. If not, well the police might not quite see his "borrowing" of a dead priest's vehicle in the same benevolent light. Cops were funny like that.

Despite the possible complications of this plan, Jane had made his decision. Absently, he picked up Father Patrick's clothing and left the hospital.

The snow had turned to a light freezing rain and the coldness of it began to seep into his skin. He had to wipe off the windshield of the Honda with his sweatshirt sleeve before he got inside and turned up the defrost and heater full blast, drops of icy water dripping from his hair. He sat shivering a moment before the heater kicked in, and, glancing at the passenger's seat, he saw Father Patrick's coat.

Unfamiliar tendrils of guilt began wrapping around his conscience, and he thought of how he hadn't filled out the priest's paperwork. He could have told the receptionist the truth, that he'd helped this stranger out who'd gotten sick in a bar, but then the police would have been called, Father Patrick's car impounded, and there would go his free ride to Seattle.

Unfortunately, Nature (he dared not think it was God) had something to say about his Plan A. As Jane pulled out onto the main road, he realized Seattle would have to wait. The rain was now more ice than liquid, and was falling even harder. Visibility was decreasing rapidly and he could barely see the center of the road. The ice was building up on the pavement, and he felt it catch at the tires, felt the minor loss of control when he hit a slick spot. He cautiously drove around the little town, past The Robin's Nest Bed and Breakfast, past the small road-side motel. Both places had No Vacancy signs. No room at the inns. _Shit._

Plan B was probably out too, if this storm continued. No busses would be coming through tomorrow. Time for Plan C.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

If you spent any time at all in Cannon River, you couldn't miss the most beautiful building in town: Saint Andrew's Catholic Church. Jane had seen the Gothic structure on his brief quest for lodging, and he drove carefully back into the middle of town to find it again. He pulled into the parking lot of the rectory, and, seeing the curtain of ice outside, he grabbed the priest's coat.

The key to the rectory was clearly labeled on Father Patrick's key chain, and after slipping and sliding down the icy sidewalk, he felt for the lock and opened the door.

It was blessedly warm inside, and as he flipped on the light he sighed in relief, brushing the ice from his hair. He looked around the simply furnished apartment: small kitchen, sitting area, a hall leading to what he assumed was a bathroom, probably a study, and bedroom. This would do for the night, he thought, when he opened the refrigerator to find it fully stocked. When the weather broke in the morning, he'd be on his way again to Seattle, a good night's sleep, a full belly, and no one the wiser, if Father Patrick still lay in a coma.

Out of curiosity, he went to a door that he guessed would lead to the connected church. He found himself in a small room, a case on the wall containing the formal clothing the priest would wear at Mass. Through another door, he found the vestibule and, looking forward, the pews and pulpit of the sanctuary, the cloth-covered altar, all softly lit by the soft flicker of candlelight.

Images from Jane's past came back to him, and he felt a sudden tug at his heart as he remembered sitting in a church much like this, listening to a sermon, his mother beside him, smelling of Chantilly perfume that competed with the faint scents of candlewax and incense. He spied the font of holy water, but looked hastily away without moving to dip his fingers and cross himself, as his mother used to help him do. He certainly avoided the agonized gaze of the small statue of Christ on the cross.

He was briefly startled by the appearance of a nun from a side door, who strode purposely to the bank of candles, checking them for safety, lighting one of her own. She wore the long white habit of a second-year novice, and he could tell by her bearing she was not much younger than him.

As she turned from the candles and glanced toward the vestibule, she pulled up short, seeing him there, equally transfixed by her. She strode toward him then, a small smile on her pretty face as she beheld his borrowed overcoat. With her titian eyebrows and pale skin, he was sure there was red hair beneath her wimple. Jane's hand had slipped nervously into the priest's coat pocket, and suddenly he felt the soft plastic and fabric of Father Patrick's white priest's collar. He pulled it out in surprise. The nun's eyes darted to the familiar object in his hand.

"You must be Father Patrick," she said brightly. "So nice to have you at Saint Andrew's."

Jane looked down from her lovely amber eyes to the holy object in his hand, his mind racing. He certainly wouldn't be staying in the cozy rectory if he confessed.

"Yes, I'm Patrick," he said, taking her hand. She looked startled by both his casual manner and his handshake, but she put her soft hand in his and shook it with confidence. "And I can't tell you how happy I am to be here, myself."

She laughed. "I'm Sister Grace," she said. "I've been assigned to come and check on the church a few times a day. I suppose now I'll have to ask Mother for a new assignment, now you're here."

Jane smiled—he found she was one of those people who has a special light that radiates from within, and it was virtually impossible not to be taken in by it. In the past, his father would have called her the perfect mark. But then, Jane was currently of the mind that his father was the devil.

"Well, I'm sure you've been doing a very good job," said Jane, settling into his new role. He nodded toward the front of the church. "The sanctuary looks ship-shape."

Her cheeks grew rosy. "Thank you, Father. May I help you with anything before I go back to the convent?"

"No, thank you, Sister Grace. I'm sure God will reward you for all your good work seeing to things until I could get here."

"Yes, Father. Thank you, Father. Good night."

"Good night, Sister. And be careful out there; the roads are getting rough."

She left through the side door from which she had entered, and Jane turned back toward the rectory. He really hated to shatter her illusions, to take away her pretty smile, which he would surely do once she realized he wasn't actually a priest. He shrugged, pushing down the guilt for what seemed the hundredth time that day, and focused on the prospect of a hot shower and a good night's sleep in a warm bed.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Hamburgers again? Really?" said Lieutenant Kimball Cho of the Canon River Police Department.

"I'm sorry, I'm hungry for them," said his partner, Lieutenant Teresa Lisbon. "Besides, I'm driving. Next time you show up first and get the keys, you can pick where we eat."

They'd stopped at Red's Diner across from the bus depot and sat in their usual booth. The place was decorated for the season with tinsel and lights around the windows, cut out snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. "Jingle Bell Rock" played softy on the radio behind the counter.

Lieutenant Lisbon would order the hopelessly greasy burger and fries, while Cho frowned at the one-page, laminated menu which he knew by heart. Sadly, looking harder wouldn't magically put pizza on the list. He sighed.

"What can I get you, officers?" asked the waitress, a hint of amusement in her voice. Cho didn't look up, but scanned beneath the heading of _Red's Specialties_ , a definite misnomer, given there didn't seem to be one special thing on the menu.

"BLT," he told the waitress in resignation, imagining the limp bacon, greasy bread and anemic vegetables to come. When he raised his head to politely address the waitress, Cho felt his jaw drop and his dark eyes widen at the sight of the platinum blonde in red polyester. The small gold badge on her dress identified her as _Summer_.

"You want fries with that?" she asked, secret humor sparkling in beautiful brown eyes.

"Absolutely," said Lisbon.

Cho could only shake his head.

"And to drink?"

"Coffee," said Lisbon while Cho struggled to find his power of speech.

"And you, sir?" she prompted, bubblegum pink lips forming the words.

He forced himself to look up at her eyes and not follow the downward track they had been heading toward her full breasts. "Uh, coffee."

"Coming right up."

He watched her leave, noting with a dry mouth the pleasant sway of her hips, the slim legs encased in tan pantyhose. When he forced himself to look forward again, it was to see Lisbon staring at him with a knowing smirk.

"What the hell was that?" she said.

"Nothing."

Lisbon grinned. "It wasn't nothing. You looked like you were just poleaxed."

Cho shrugged. "I was surprised it wasn't Patty." Their usual waitress.

Lisbon snorted softly. "Yeah, right. I get it though. She _is_ cute-in a sex kittenish sort of way."

He raised a brow. "Sex kittenish?"

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean."

Summer returned with a pot of coffee and, turning over the coffee cups already at their table, she expertly filled each one. "Cream and sugar's on the table," she said, nodding toward the little caddy that held the packets.

"Thanks," mumbled Cho.

"No problem, handsome," she said.

Lisbon was delighted to see her usually unflappable partner flush pink.

"Your sandwiches will be out soon."

"Thank you, Summer," said Lisbon in supreme amusement, as the waitress went off to tend to other customers.

Cho met her eyes in annoyance.

"Shut up," he said.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time they'd finished dinner, the freezing rain was starting to fall in earnest. Cannon River's finest jogged carefully back to their green SUV police cruiser and Lisbon started the engine.

"Good Lord, that's really coming down now. We should drive around and see if there are any accidents."

"Yeah," Cho agreed.

They found two pretty quickly. The first was a woman whose car had slid off the road into an embankment. They called a tow truck on their car radio, loaned her a blanket while she waited in her car. Another was a two-car fender bender in the gas station parking lot. They took down the relevant information for their report and the two drivers went on their way.

Lisbon drove downtown, and Lisbon automatically went past Saint Andrew's. She was surprised to see a white Honda with California plates parked near the rectory door.

"The new priest must have arrived," she said. She was glad to see this, as there had been no Mass in the weeks since Father John had died. Still, she'd gone to church to pray twice a week, to light candles for her dead parents and to find the strength to get through each mundane day in Cannon River. She'd been worried there would be no Christmas services either, and now she felt excited to see who had been sent to take over the little parish.

Lisbon absently touched the cross that hung hidden behind her forest green uniform. God had guided her through the worst days of her life—her mom's death in a car accident, her father's alcohol poisoning—helped her finish college in Chicago, the top of her class in Criminology. But afterwards, she'd felt numb, her graduation anticlimactic without anyone to see it, and she could no longer summon the motivation to look for a job or go on to the police academy as she had planned. She lived on her parents' insurance policies until she could no longer bear her empty childhood home, until her friends stopped calling to invite her out. She'd long since broken her engagement to her high school sweetheart, and she felt as if there was nothing left for her in the big, loud city she had once loved.

When her great-aunt on her mother's side had called from Vancouver, Lisbon had spontaneously taken her up on her long-standing offer to come for a visit. Her aunt had been thrilled, and Lisbon had locked up her old house and gotten on the next plane to the Pacific Northwest.

She hadn't been back to Chicago since.

She'd applied and been accepted into the police academy in Vancouver, and after she'd finished with high marks again, landed a job in the small town of Cannon River as a lieutenant. It was just what she needed. She found she didn't miss the big city, could be alone with her thoughts and with the idea of building a quiet career, maybe finding a kind, dependable man to marry and live happily ever after in the idyllic town that was as far from Chicago's woes as she could get. When she wasn't working, she would find herself at the beautiful little church or walking on one of the numerous trails through the tranquil forest that surrounded the town. Both activities soothed and healed her soul.

She liked her competent partner, Cho, who had a similar story, though he had escaped the mean streets of Oakland, California for first the Army, then the academy in Seattle. His stoic nature appealed to Lisbon, and she found they were very compatible partners—both logical thinkers, both devoted to their jobs. They had slowly become friends, though not in the usual sense. There were few deep discussions or heart-to-hearts, but they connected on a level of respect and understanding that went beyond words. She trusted him with her life, and knew without saying it that the feeling was mutual.

When they heard that Police Chief Minelli would be retiring, their friendship turned a little more competitive, as they realized one of them would be next in line for the job. In such a small town where nothing ever happened, it would be difficult to distinguish herself as the heir apparent, and Lisbon secretly prayed for some excitement that would allow her to show off her potential to be the future chief. Nothing like a murder or anything, where someone would be hurt—just a mystery, or perhaps some way she could be a hero. Trouble was, with Cho as her partner, he would be in on any situation she might be faced with, and she knew he was equally qualified for the promotion. She supposed she would have to put her life in God's hands once more.

And so as she turned the police car around in the church parking lot, she was pleased to realize that at least her spiritual life was about to get a boost. Suddenly, the door to the rectory abruptly opened, and the light emanating from inside the rectory seemed to frame the man's blond curls in angelic light. Lisbon blinked, her imagination and no doubt her heavy meal coming back to bite her. She stepped hard on the brakes, and Cho let out a swear word she'd seldom heard him say.

"Hey!"

"Sorry," she said absently. "It looks like the new priest is getting something from his car."

"So?"  
"Well, what if he needs help?"

Cho followed her gaze, watching the man in the dark coat through the rain and the steady swishing of the windshield wipers. The man tried the door to the car, but his hand slipped right off. He tried again, but it was obvious from this distance the handle of his car had frozen up, firmly encased in a layer of ice. He began pounding violently on the handle in a decidedly unpriestly way, and Cho's mouth quirked as he read the man's lips in the light from the rectory. Cho was no Catholic, but he knew those weren't words you likely heard at Christmas Mass.

Lisbon suddenly reached across Cho's lap to open the glove box, extracting a can of de-icer. She was out of the car before he could protest. Cho looked heavenward, then, with his second agonized sigh of the night, followed her out into the driving rain.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane couldn't rid himself of the chill from the frozen hell outside, so before he took a hot shower, he realized he would need dry clothing to change into. Problem was, he'd left his bag in the car. No way he was going to raid the priest's holy vestments from the small anteroom he'd seen earlier, and the drawers in the bedroom had been cleaned out of the past occupant's belongings. He'd also like his toothbrush.

Resigned to his decision, he went back out into the cold. The ice fell down beneath the collar of his borrowed coat as he tried without success merely to grasp the frozen door handle.

"Son of a bitch," he yelled, pounding on the door. "Come on!"

But just as he was about to go inside and boil some water, he looked up to see a very short cop approaching him, an aerosol can clasped in a gloved hand, a sidearm bouncing on a green-clad hip. Jane's heart seized at the sight of law enforcement—never a good thing to see in his line of work. He noticed now through the icy rain the police SUV's headlights shining toward the other end of the parking lot, and another officer emerging from the passenger door. This couldn't possibly be good. His first thought was that Father Patrick had awakened to ask for his car, and then the police had been called, and between them and the priest, they'd tracked him down here and were about to arrest him for grand theft auto.

"May I help you, Father?" asked the nearer cop, having to yell through the heavy sound of ice hitting the pavement.

Jane was surprised to discover that, beneath the plastic-covered bill of the police hat were a pair of very pretty, decidedly feminine, green eyes. She held up the can meaningfully.

He was inordinately pleased it was not mace.

"Uh, yeah," he managed. "Thanks."

He stepped aside as she liberally sprayed the door handle. "Give it a second to work," she said, looking up at him with those kind, compelling eyes.

Jane swallowed, feeling suddenly much warmer than he ought to be in a driving ice storm.

"So you're the new priest? Sorry you are having such a cold welcome," she said with a dimpled smile.

Jane reached up and wiped the melting ice from his face, the thought occurring to him that with his next words, he could be lying to the police. His heart picked up speed in anticipation of what he should say next. The cop's partner arrived to silently offer his support, nodding to Jane in an excellent imitation of Joe Friday.

"It certainly isn't California," he said, his own voice raised above the din. There. Nothing particularly priestly about that.

She chuckled. "Try it now, Father."

He did, and like magic, the ice around the handle had melted, and he was able to open the car door with ease.

"It's a miracle," he said. "You must be a saint."

He realized belatedly that that would sound very sacrilegious coming from a priest, but it made her smile widen and her dimples deepen, and immediately, Patrick Jane knew he was in big, big trouble.

 **A/N: Oh, yes we've got trouble. Right here in Cannon River…I hope I haven't bitten off more than I can chew with this one—I'm sure you can see some of the implications. But let me just say, Lisbon's world is about to get more exciting than she ever really wanted. In case I don't get the next chapter out before Christmas, I pray you all have a merry one. Thanks for taking a chance on this fic. I'm a little nervous, but would love to hear what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow! So pleasantly surprised at the positive reaction to my first chapter! Thank you so much for the reviews. I'm glad I didn't seem to offend any Catholics (yet). I hope you enjoy this next installment even more. Thanks for reading.

 **Chapter 2**

"Well, he could have at least invited us in for tea or something," said Lisbon grumpily as she drove cautiously away from the church. The freezing rain had slowed considerably, and she turned her windshield wipers to low.

"He looked tired," said Cho helpfully from the passenger's seat.

"Okay, but still…"

But Cho knew what she meant. He was by no means religious, but there was something a little off about this priest. It wasn't something he could put his finger on exactly, but Cho vowed to keep an eye on the guy, if only for Lisbon's sake.

For her part, Lisbon couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed, after her expectations had been so high in meeting the new priest. But Cho was right—he _had_ appeared tired, and had said he'd just arrived after his long drive from California. Maybe her disappointment came because he was much more casual a priest than she was used to, didn't exude the usual air of safety and purity of Father John and the other priests she had known. He certainly looked like a saint, however, with all those beautiful blonde curls and soft green eyes, but there was a hint of mischief that one didn't usually see in a man of God, and it was very disconcerting. She'd felt a totally inappropriate jolt of awareness in his presence, which in turn made her feel confused, embarrassed, and a little guilty. Just part of being Catholic, she supposed, frowning.

And yet, she was still annoyed he didn't invite them into the rectory to warm up.

Just then, the slightly hesitant voice of the Cannon River Police Department dispatcher/receptionist/assistant/sometime jailer crackled over the radio.

"Lieutenant Lisbon, there's a three-car pile-up on the interstate just south of town. Highway patrol is requesting assistance."

"Okay, Henry, we're on it."

She supposed her disappointment in the new priest would have to wait. Besides, she'd see him tomorrow for the weekly community outreach at the church, and maybe then she'd get to see the real priest beneath those mischievous eyes…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

When the knocking on the door awakened him, for a moment, Jane didn't know where he was. His eyes flew open and he looked at the unfamiliar ceiling. Dim light was coming through the blinds at the window and he realized it was morning. When he focused on the crucifix hanging above the plain chest of drawers, he remembered he wasn't in a cheap motel room anymore.

The knocking persisted-just a polite tap-and Jane stood with a groan and pulled on his sweatshirt and jeans. Someone was at the door that led to the inside of the church, so it was unlikely it was the cute little police officer he'd met last night. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and opened the door.

Sister Grace and her Mother Superior stood patiently, the sour faced older woman frowning at his state of less-than-holiness.

"Sister Grace," said Jane politely.

"Father Patrick," she acknowledged. "This is Reverend Mother Margaret Maria."

The name gave him pause. His mother had been named Margaret— _Maggie_ to most people she knew. He swallowed down the unexpected pang of loss.

"Good morning, Reverend Mother. What brings you to my door this fine, frosty morning?"

Her thin lips formed a disapproving line. "You must not have received the memo before you left, listing Saint Andrew's schedule. Today is Community Outreach day, which we do three times per week. We are serving lunch to the poor and displaced in an hour."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, "So?", but he remained respectful, and nodded. "I'm sorry I slept so late."

And he truly was. Had he awakened earlier, he would have been long gone by now.

"So we will see you in the basement hall very soon?" It really wasn't a question, so to be fair, Jane didn't answer it.

"How are the roads?" he ventured instead.

"They are practically impassable in an out of town because of the ice. The cold weather will likely bring more to today's luncheon," Reverend Mother finished pointedly.

"I'm sure," said Jane. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I should probably get dressed."

"Yes," said Reverend Mother, and Jane felt like he had when he'd attended Catholic school briefly as a child—terrified—but he tried his best not to show it.

Jane offered his best smile—one he knew never failed to dazzle the women. Sister Grace predictably blushed and smiled shyly in return. Reverend Mother Margaret Maria was immune.

The door shut between them, Jane swore under his breath. He wasn't going anywhere today. The right thing now would be to admit he was an imposter, and throw himself on the Reverend Mother's mercy to let him stay until the busses were running again. Or…he looked around the tidy little rectory. The tidy little _warm_ rectory, where he'd gotten an excellent night's sleep for a change, without the usual nefarious activities keeping him awake at all hours in the dives that he could afford. Which was another thing. He had little money to pay for a motel room even if there was a room available in such a place, and how would he pay for another bus ticket after that?

He'd found the real Father Patrick's wallet in the pocket of the priest's pants from the hospital bag. There was a couple hundred dollars in cash in there, but when he thought of the kindly priest lying in a coma at the hospital, Jane couldn't bring himself to take it. What would his father think of that, he wondered.

 _Not a day away from me, Paddy, and you're already goin' soft. No way in hell you're gonna make it without me, kid._

The voice in his head had a point. How would he be able to earn a living as a conman if he couldn't even steal a few measly bills from a sick man's wallet?

He went over to the window and lifted a slat of the mini blind. A light snow was falling, covering the layer of ice already accumulated on the ground and weighing down the tree branches. It would probably take at least an hour to scrape the windshield of Father Patrick's car. He shivered just at the thought of going out there to perform the task. He wished he had asked the lady cop from the night before if he could borrow her can of de-icer. But mostly, he wished she hadn't been a cop.

A vision of large green eyes in a porcelain face came to mind, and he recalled the instant attraction he'd felt for his lovely, uniformed heroine. He wondered what she looked like beneath the bulky jacket she'd worn, wondered if she ever had cause to use those handcuffs he'd seen dangling from her belt. His heart skipped a beat. Under other circumstances, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to date a cop—well, _that_ cop, in particular.

She'd seemed disappointed that he hadn't invited her in out of the cold, but there was too much at stake to risk discovery. Her partner had already looked suspicious. But so far, Jane had done nothing really illegal. He hadn't actually said he was a priest—everyone had just assumed it. He'd been given permission to drive Father Patrick's car, and he was sure, even with their brief acquaintance, that the good priest wouldn't have begrudged him seeking refuge from the storm in the rectory. No, he would just have to play it cool and avoid the police, even though it meant never seeing those beautiful eyes again.

But first, he had to get through lunch and the shrewd eyes of Mother Margaret Maria. Reluctantly, he went to the priest's suitcase he'd retrieved from his car last night. Inside the scuffed brown leather case were several black shirts and black pants, all neatly folded. He sighed. He couldn't exactly appear in the basement wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, but putting on the priest's garb would be a step over the line that he couldn't take back. He would no longer be able to say people were making assumptions about his identity, for clearly he would be intentionally choosing to defraud them.

"Well, Patrick," he said to the empty apartment, "you wanted to be your own man, to run your own game. Now's the time to put your money where your big mouth is."

Resigned now to whatever might come, he pulled his sweatshirt off over his head.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The line into the basement already stretched outside the doors, at least fifty people deep, and Sister Grace and a few other nuns from the small abbey across the street were ushering them inside out of the cold. Several long, folding tables and chairs were set up in readiness for the diners. Along one side of the large room, a cafeteria style serving area contained steaming trays of what appeared to be the choice of hot spaghetti, green beans, or beef stew with slices of crusty homemade bread. Jane's stomach rumbled at the delicious aroma, and he realized he hadn't had the chance to fix himself some eggs from the priest's refrigerator in the rectory.

"You're just in time, Father," said the Reverend Mother, emerging from the kitchen. "Hold out your hands, please."

He did so without thinking, and she slipped on each of his hands a clear plastic glove, then slid a matching apron over his head. She nodded toward the food, and it dawned on him belatedly that he was expected to serve. He grinned with good humor at the mess he'd gotten himself into, but gamely took his place in front of the spaghetti. He'd just settled there, taking up a large spoon, when a familiar, petite form came out of the kitchen carrying a giant chocolate sheet cake.

The young woman's dark hair was cut into a sleek bob that stopped just below a small, rather stubborn chin, her smooth skin devoid of much makeup except a bit of mascara and some pale peach lip gloss. With a barely discernable smattering of tiny freckles on her nose and cheeks, she looked fresh and lovely and about fifteen years old. She wore the same gloves and apron as he, though hers protected her smartly pressed green police lieutenant's uniform, gold star and all. She literally stopped in her tracks at the sight of him.

"Hello, Officer," said Jane amiably, finding to his surprise he was inordinately happy to see her, despite the danger her uniform presented him.

She smiled warily back at him, and he rushed to help her set down the heavy pan at the end of the serving line. "Lieutenant," she corrected him. "Lisbon. Teresa Lisbon." They shook gloved hands, and a warm current passed between them even through the plastic. The strange sensation made him grin.

"Nice of you to volunteer," he said, as she began cutting the cake into neat squares with a scary looking serrated knife.

"It's my parish," she explained.

"Aw, you're Catholic then. What a coincidence; so am I."

She laughed at that, as he'd intended, finally lifting her eyes from her task with the cake to meet his. Her dimples only enhanced her appeal. _God, she was lovely_.

Her brow knitted as her gaze followed the lines of his face like a caress, before landing and pausing at his neck. "Your collar, Father—I think it's upside down."

He glanced nervously downward, but of course he couldn't see what she meant. _There is an up and down with these things?_

He held up his gloves helplessly. "I'll have to fix it later. I was in a hurry this morning. I overslept, I'm afraid."

"It must have been a long trip from California."

"Yes," he said simply. "So, you take off work to help here? That's very impressive."

She shrugged modestly. "My partner covers for me at the station, and technically I'm on call. But nothing very exciting ever happens in Cannon River—not that that's a bad thing, necessarily," she rushed to say, lest she sounded like she wanted trouble.

 _So, the little cop was bored_ , thought Jane. _Interesting_.

"I imagine the storm last night was an exception," he suggested.

"It was definitely a busy night. I'm just thankful no one was seriously hurt."

But he was denied the chance to inquire further about the roads when the first of the needy picked up their trays at the beginning of the serving line. Teresa Lisbon took her place beside him, manning the green beans with her big slotted spoon.

"One spoonful of spaghetti per patron, Father," she told him helpfully. "They can have seconds if we have enough after everyone is served."

"Thanks," he said.

A couple more nuns joined them, including Sister Grace, whose job was ladling stew into bowls that she handed carefully to each person. Jane began then to really see whom he was serving. They were mostly men, grizzled and dressed in layers of ragged clothing, some more threadbare than others, some with more appropriate heavy coats. He tried not to wrinkle his nose at the odor some of them exuded. There were a few women with their children, and Jane's throat tightened in sudden remembrance. There had been times in the winter months when carnival season was over and money was tight, that his mother had taken him to a local soup kitchen. She had been a proud woman, but she couldn't bear to hear her young son complain of hunger. What was it about this place that seemed to recall so many memories?

Jane smiled at a woman in a black stocking cap who helped her young daughter hold up her tray so Jane could plop a spoon of spaghetti into the largest compartment.

"Thank you, Father," said the woman. The little boy of about four looked up at Jane with enormous blue eyes, beneath a red hat, and Jane suddenly felt lost in time.

"Say thank you, Danny," her mother prompted.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You're very welcome," said Jane, utterly charmed. His eyes followed the pair as they continued down the line and took their trays to a table. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on what he was doing. It was then that he felt someone's eyes on him, and he turned slightly to see Teresa Lisbon watching him intently. They shared a look of mutual compassion, and then went about their work, Jane taking the time now to notice and speak to each person in line. He was rewarded with "Thank you, Father" and "Merry Christmas, Father," or "God bless you, Father," all with various degrees of pride and shyness.

Though he didn't deserve any of their praise, for the first time in years, Jane felt good about something he had done, felt the warm glow that came from a child's smile or the gratitude of an adult in dire need. He felt shaken by the experience, and guilty at the same time at his deception.

But then he forgot all that when a familiar man held out his plate for his portion of spaghetti. Though he now resembled one of the many homeless people he had seen that day, Jane recognized him at once. He had been on the bus with him yesterday, the same guy who had warned him in the bar that their bus was about to leave. He'd sat across from him on the bus, and they'd chatted briefly about where they were from and where they were headed. Small talk; nothing that would lead Jane to believe the man wanted anything from him, or that he was dangerous.

Now where had that thought come from? Jane's instincts heightened, and he felt a wave of trepidation wash over him.

"Hello… _Father,_ " the man said with mild irony. Jane's eyes widened. This guy knew damn well he was not a priest, had likely seen him talking with Father Patrick at the bar. He hadn't gotten back on the bus either, for some reason. What the hell was he doing here, impersonating a homeless man? Running some sort of scam of his own? Or, thought Jane, his stomach turning over, was the man _following_ him?

He accepted his spaghetti with a knowing smirk and an offhanded thanks, smiling now at Teresa, who added green beans to his plate. Jane watched as he sat near little Danny and his mother, a wave of protective anger sweeping over him, heightening the color in his cheeks.

"Are you all right, Father?" Teresa asked softly.

"Fine," he said, his voice sharper than he'd intended. Thankfully, she didn't pry further, but he kept one eye on the guy the rest of the time.

Later, when everyone was fed (including, as it would happen, himself and the other volunteers) he stood by Teresa Lisbon again, washing the trays and silverware in the kitchen. He had looked for the man from the bus again, but after he'd eaten and returned his tray, he'd disappeared back out into the cold. Jane had had his hands full serving spaghetti, so he'd been unable to tear himself away and chase the guy outside to confront him, not without drawing too much attention to himself.

Teresa noticed his preoccupied expression.

"You seem upset, Father," she said.

He managed a small smile, though his eyes lacked their usual sparkle. "I apologize. It was just…touching to see so many in need."

She nodded, spraying down a pile of silverware in the sink with hot water. "Yes. Hard to believe there are so many, just in our small town. Though the cold weather brought more than usual today."

"The Reverend Mother predicted as much."

"You didn't have as many needy people in your parish in California?"

His lips clenched at the lie he must tell, so he vowed to frame it with as much of the truth as he could muster. "I didn't do this kind of thing in California."

"I imagine in a bigger parish you would have many more volunteers."

"Yeah."

But his mind was still racing at the possible identity of the "homeless" man. Jane knew with a dire certainty now he'd been followed from Los Angeles, just as his father had warned him might happen. If this were true, he'd see the man again soon enough, and he mentally cursed his father again for taking his pistol.

In the meantime, Jane made himself focus on the present, and on the beautiful woman working beside him.

"How long have you been in Cannon River?" he asked her, with his usual good humor.

She stared at him, surprised by his abrupt change in manner. "Two years," she replied automatically. "How long have you been a priest?"

His lips smirked slightly. "Not as long as you might think."

Her eyebrows raised, but she didn't comment on his answer. "Well, this is a nice little parish. I like it here. I'm looking forward to hearing your Christmas Mass. I thought we wouldn't have one this year, considering…"

He thought of the folder he'd found with Father Patrick's things. It was a typed sermon, labeled "Christmas Mass." If he was still here at Christmas, God help him, at least he'd be able to wing it, though the prospect of standing in a church and pretending like he knew what he was doing, of lying to a hopeful congregation on one of their holiest days, suddenly didn't sit right with him. He had a sudden flashback to the time he'd had to pretend he had a crystal that would cure a disabled girl, back when his father had forced him to play the part of the Boy Wonder on the carnival circuit. _That_ hadn't sat right with him either. It was one thing to target the undeserving, the assholes of the world who could afford to "share" their wealth. It was another thing entirely to take advantage of helpless innocents. His father had never seen the distinction.

"You're not from around here either," said Jane, changing the subject. "I detect…a hint of Chi-town in your speech."

"How'd you know that?" She'd obviously tried to hide her accent, probably to fit in in this small community.

He shrugged. "I'm pretty good with accents. Your partner, for example. Northern California all the way—Bay Area maybe?"

"That's incredible. I think he only said two words to you last night."

"It's a gift," he said without conceit.

"Huh," she said in wonder. "I suppose it would be. You're a very interesting man, Father Patrick. Not like any priest I've ever known."

He looked up from the next dirty tray in the stack, tossed more silverware into the sink for her. Without considering the consequences, he gave her a flirtatious wink. "I imagine I'm not, Lieutenant Lisbon. Just as you're like no cop _I've_ ever met."

She grinned at him, no doubt recognizing the truth in that. Female cops were a rarity, even in this day and age, but he knew she could read a deeper meaning into his words, and he was having a difficult time remaining in character with her.

"I imagine I'm not," she echoed softly.

For a moment, their gazes locked and held, and it took a Herculean effort not to grab her and kiss her sweetly formed lips. She must have seen his unspoken intention, for her eyes fluttered nervously back to her dirty silverware, while Jane, heart pounding heavily, roughly grabbed the last tray from the stack.

The dangerous spell was broken by the arrival of Sister Grace with another armload of plastic trays.

"We helped so many today, Father Patrick," she said brightly, but then her pretty face grew pensive. "Though should we see this as a blessing or a tragedy?"

"There _were_ a lot more people than usual," said Teresa, in the wake of Jane's tongue-tied silence. "But I'm sure it's temporary for many. Some of the crowd I recognized as stranded travelers from the bus depot."

"I suppose it's both, then, Sister," said Jane at last, grateful for the distraction from Lisbon's eyes, misty green and intriguing, like the forest surrounding the little town.

Sister grace nodded. "Then I will pray in gratitude _and_ for mercy."

"I'm sure that will cover everybody," said Jane, cleaning another tray with strange intensity. He missed the startled looks of the two women, whose eyes met in shared confusion at their new priest's odd reply.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

To give himself something to work out his frustrations, Jane found a snow shovel, a bag of ice melt, and some work gloves in a utility closet near the front door of the church. Fresh air—even cold air—had always helped him clear his head. Bundling up in Father Patrick's coat, he set about clearing the ice and snow from the church walkways. The snow had finally stopped, and a bit of weak sunlight was seeping through the clouds, but the temperature was still well below freezing. It would be at least another day before things began to thaw, according to the local weather forecast.

As he made his way to the rectory path, he looked wistfully at the priest's ice-covered car. He longed for escape, both from the man stalking him and from his complicated feelings for the enchanting Teresa Lisbon. If he stayed here much longer, had more contact with her, he would forget himself like he almost had in the church kitchen, and his cover would be blown sky high. He decided then to go ahead and attempt to clear the windshields of the car, in case he'd have to make a hasty getaway, bad roads or not.

He was just spreading ice melt near a tall juniper shrub when the man from the bus came out from behind it, sidling up to Jane before he could think to move away or pick up his shovel. He felt the hard metal of a gun pressed into his side, even through his greatcoat.

"Need some help, _Father_?" It was his bus depot shadow, still in the tattered coat of a homeless man. Jane had the feeling some fortunate homeless person was now wearing designer jeans and a leather jacket somewhere, eating hot food and buying from the top shelf in a liquor store. He probably smelled a lot better too.

"Who the hell are _you_?" asked Jane, proud his voice wasn't shaking. If anyone should drive by, they would be unable to see them from the street, as was likely the man's intention, and it was unlikely anyone would be peeking out from the rectory window.

"I think you know—or at least have figured out who I work for," he replied tightly. "Roger Corpsman ring any bells?"

Jane nodded. Corpsman was the wealthy but gullible heir to an electronics company whose inner circle Alex and Patrick had infiltrated back in LA. The long con had been to get Corpsman to invest in some bogus business deal, then the Janes would simply take the money and run. But they hadn't even gotten the man on the hook yet when Alex got caught sleeping with Corpsman's hot, ex-Playboy Playmate wife. Alex Jane was like a thieving racoon, who couldn't resist the attraction of shiny thing, even if he got his paw caught in a trap.

"Good, you remember. Where's Daddy, Patrick?"

"I have no idea," said Jane. "When he screwed up, I stopped working with him."

"Well that's unfortunate," said the man, disturbingly close to Jane's ear. "Look, I don't know what kind of scam you're running here-maybe planning to pilfer the offering box on Christmas Day? I honestly don't give a rat's ass, but I'm sure that pretty little cop would be interested, not to mention all the sweet nuns you were feeding the homeless with today. They might want to know how you got close to the real priest in a bar, disposed of him, took his car, and assumed his identity—all of which I witnessed when I missed my bus last night. So, unless you want me to expose your game to this whole town, you'll find your prodigal daddy and get him to come here so I can have a little chat with him about personal boundaries."

"I swear, I don't know where he is. But even if I did, I wouldn't turn him over to the likes of you." In response to Jane's momentary rebellion, the gun was jabbed more meaningfully into his gut.

"Huh, that _is_ a quandary. But what if I were to help you out a little? Say, take out a cop or two, or maybe that nosy old Mother Superior? With no one keeping an eye on you, you could get away with—"

"No!" Jane said vehemently, picturing a horrific massacre in the middle of Christmas Mass. "No one needs to get hurt. I'll see if I can get him here."

"Wise choice. I strongly suggest this happens within forty-eight hours. If not, the pretty cop is first on my list. And if you think of ratting me out or skipping town, the body count will increase tenfold, and you'll be one of them. I'm sure now you can see how serious I am about this, Patrick."

"Yeah," said Jane, his pulse racing with fear.

"Nobody messes with Roger Corpsman's property without repercussions, understand?"

"Completely," Jane assured him.

"I'll be back at your place in two days. Say!" said the henchman brightly. "Just in time for Christmas! You'd better be on your best behavior till then, Patrick, or instead of coal in your stocking, Santa will bring you and your friends a nice lump of hot lead."

"Very clever," said Jane.

The henchman smiled. "I thought so."

Abruptly, the gun was removed from his side, and the smell of unwashed clothing faded away. Jane picked up the snow shovel, leaning heavily on it in shaking aftershock, wishing he'd had the chance to bash the man over the head with it.

"Holy shit," he said, wiping the cold sweat from his brow with the back of his work glove. He felt suddenly frozen, but more in the figurative sense. He had no doubt this guy meant business—Jane was an expert at reading people, after all.

Jane knew the motel where he and Alex were supposed to meet in Portland; the only problem was, Alex had said himself he might be late getting there. Jane supposed he could start calling the women he was aware of that his father might visit along the way, but there were many people and things his father kept from him—another reason why their partnership must end. If only Alex's stupid decisions would stop biting Jane in the ass, he could finally get on with his independent existence.

Another vision of Teresa Lisbon, green eyes staring blankly up at the gray sky, her blood staining the white snow, brought him out of his momentary shock. He threw down the shovel angrily, kicked the half-empty bag of ice-melt, and stomped back into the rectory. There was a phone in the priest's office, and Jane found that in a choice between his father's life and the residents of this small town, Teresa Lisbon and Cannon River won, hand's down. If his father was killed, well, he'd had it coming, if only for screwing up Jane's entire life.

Jane sat heavily in the leather desk chair and picked up the white receiver from its cradle, then pressed the touchtone buttons for Oregon Information. Someone was going to pay for Alex Jane's indiscretions, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him, or the incredible Lieutenant Lisbon.

 **A/N: The plot thickens. Thanks for reading. More soon. Happy New Year to you all! (RIP Carrie Fisher and George Michael—two big parts of my formative years, gone in a flash. 2016 really sucked for 70 and 80's icons). Here's hoping for a much more prosperous and merciful 2017!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** : **I'm so glad so many of you enjoyed my last installment. I hope this one was worth the wait. Again, apologies to all you Catholics if I mess something up. No disrespect is intended.**

 **Chapter 3**

Jane left messages at the most likely motels where his father would end up in Portland, but after leaving the rectory as a contact number, he began to have his first regrets. Had he been too quick to give in to Corpsman's demands? Was there another way out of this mess his father had flung him into? In Jane's experience, there was always another way, and he sat at the priest's desk, contemplating his options.

Without a gun thrust into his side, Jane's thoughts became more clear. His first instinct was to just get out of town, but he believed Corpsman's henchman would do what he said, and Jane would have the blood of innocents on his hands. There was another, more obvious idea, but he pushed it out of his head for now. The fallout of that would likely mean spending a little time in jail, and that was way on the bottom of his list of Christmas wishes.

Before he did anything else, however, Jane's thoughts had settled on the fate of the real Father Patrick. He found a local phonebook in the desk drawer and, flipping through the yellow pages, settled on the number for Cannon River Regional Hospital. A helpful nurse answered the phone in the priest's room.

"I'm calling to inquire as to my uh, father, Patrick. How's he doing?"

He could practically hear the woman frowning. "He's your father, you say? We've really needed more information as to this patient's identity. They said in the ER that his son had been in the waiting room, but then just disappeared. That was you?"

"I was in the waiting room," he replied vaguely. "The bad roads have kept me away…"

"Aw, well that's understandable. He hasn't regained consciousness, but his condition hasn't worsened—"

"Okay, thank you," said Jane, before abruptly hanging up.

"Well that answers that," he said to himself. The real Father Patrick wasn't awake to back up his story that he hadn't stolen the man's car. "Shit."

A familiar light knock came on the rectory door, and with a sigh of frustration, Jane went to answer it. Sure enough, Sister Grace stood just outside.

"Father Patrick, it's almost time for evening Mass."

"What?" Jane's eyes briefly widened in abject terror, but he forced the serene, priestly mask down again. "There's daily Mass here?"

"Yes; didn't you know?"

"No."

"Well, you have thirty minutes, Father. We can't wait to hear what you have to say."

"Yeah, me too," he said wryly. "Thank you, Sister."

He shut the door before she could reply and stood for a moment, heart pounding and mind racing. A thought occurred, and he sprinted back to the priest's study. Before bed the night before, he'd been in search of reading material, and had perused the titles on the shelves that took up one complete wall. There were books upon books of religious instruction, and one called, _Mass: A Manual for Priests,_ and another, _A Priest's Manual for Hearing Confessions_. He picked up the first tome and open its yellowed, musty pages.

It was a very good thing Jane was a quick study.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane's first foray into delivering Mass wasn't a complete disaster, exactly. Before the service began he'd stood before the Holy Vestments, all in varying colors from white to wine red. Acting purely on instinct (and perhaps some recall from his childhood), he grabbed a white robe and slipped it over his head. He'd opened the manual before him at the pulpit on top of the Missal. Fortunately, there were only a handful of parishioners in attendance, and they smiled and nodded at his verbatim reading from the manual, no doubt chalking up any mistakes in delivery to his nervousness in being before a new congregation. The nuns, including the Mother Superior, sat reverently toward the rear of the chapel, and he knew they would be his harshest critics. Fearful to totally botch Holy Communion, he chose to leave it out, though the nuns frowned at him in dismay. To further complicate matters, Teresa Lisbon was in attendance, as was Corpsman's hitman, each of them meeting his eyes and smiling from their pews for completely different reasons. He avoided the hitman's eyes and focused on Teresa, a strange calm settling over him as he began to speak words that would probably damn him for eternity as a liar and a cheat.

"…The Lord be with you…" Jane began, pleased his voice sounded much stronger than he felt.

"And also with you…" dutifully replied the congregation.

"Lord, we have sinned against You. Lord have mercy…"

And so he continued, from the blessings, to prayers to the homily to the songs from the choir of three, to dismissal, Jane following the manual with little deviation.

Afterwards, feeling the perspiration beginning to dry on his back beneath the heavy robe, he stood in the vestibule, bidding the parishioners good-bye. Corpsman's man had the audacity to stop and shake his hand, and Jane gritted his teeth at the bone-crushing grip.

"Swell sermon, Father," he said. "Almost like you've been doing this for years."

"Thank you," Jane replied tightly, mindful of the nearby presence of Teresa Lisbon and the nuns. The man moved on, not before an amused smirk as Jane surreptitiously flexed his crushed fingers within the long sleeves of his robe.

Mother Superior and her nuns hung back, seeing to the righting of the pews and the prayer books, while Teresa stopped to talk to Jane.

"A very nice service, Father," she said.

She was off duty, apparently, for instead of her green uniform, she wore a plain black dress, her crucifix glinting at the modest v-neck. She wore dress boots that came to her knees, and her hair was wavy today. Jane found he liked the style on her better, as it softened her features and tempted him to touch—He cleared his throat to help himself focus, and he watched as she gripped her heavy camel-colored coat nervously.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Lisbon. I admit I was a bit nervous."

She smiled gently. "I'm sure no one else noticed much."

"Except you," he said, his eyes soft as he studied her pretty face. He inclined his head toward the nuns. "And them, of course."

"You just skipped a few parts, but that's okay. Just rehearsal for your Christmas Mass. I'm sure you'll pull out all the stops for that."

Jane stiffened at the thought, but hoped she didn't detect his renewed tension. He planned to be long gone by Christmas. That is, until he looked into Teresa's eyes again.

"Well, I appreciate your confidence."

Her hand briefly touched his sleeve. "You'll get the hang of it. It's always difficult starting a new job."

Her kind understanding made him feel even guiltier, and his smile left his eyes as he hastily glanced away from her.

They stood awkwardly a moment, though somehow neither of them wanted to leave the other's company.

"I noticed you didn't open the confessional," she ventured, glancing toward the small, ornate enclosure.

This brought the sparkle back to his eyes, and he looked back at her mischievously, though the rest of his face was suitably pious. His voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial pitch.

"Are you in need of confession, Lieutenant? I would be happy to absolve you of whatever sinful thoughts or deeds you might have done."

Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink. "Uh…nothing today, Father."

"Well I suppose that is a good thing. Keep up the good work."

"Do you have plans for Christmas Eve?" she asked in a breathless rush.

"No," he said, but he was thinking: _I wish I could get myself far the hell away from here…_

"Well, I'm uh, having a few people over tomorrow night. Just for some eggnog and maybe a few board games. I thought it might be a way for you to meet people here."

"Sure," he found himself saying, when he should have politely declined. It would already be a huge blow when she realized he was a fraud; no sense making things worse for either of them. But at that moment, Jane wasn't thinking with his head, not when her eyes were so green and her hair looked so soft.

"Great. Around eight o'clock, then? 2300 Evergreen Road."

"If I can get my car out of the parking lot, I'll be there."

She smiled shyly. "Call me if you need any help. I still have plenty of de-icer."

He chuckled. "I might take you up on that."

"Good night, Father," she said, putting out her hand. He took it, pleased to find it was warm and slightly damp with nerves. He squeezed it gently, looking deeply into her eyes. She squeezed back, but only for a brief instant.

"Good night, Lieutenant Lisbon."

She released his hand, and he watched her put on her coat, slipping the fur-lined hood over her head before she walked gracefully out into the cold.

Xxxxxxxxx

" _I still have plenty of de-icer?_ " Teresa said, mocking her own words to Father Patrick. She sat in her car in the church parking lot, kicking herself for her flirtatious behavior toward the priest. Not that he didn't seem very encouraging of it, his eyes sparkling at her devilishly. She shook her head at the notion and started her car before heading toward the hospital at the edge of town. "He's a priest, Teresa," she continued aloud. "How big a sin is that, having illicit thoughts about a man of God? You're going to Hell for sure."

But she found with Father Patrick she couldn't help herself, which was also why she'd dressed with such care just to go to Mass. She'd even put on lipstick.

"Snap out of this, Teresa. You aren't Meggie in _The Thornbirds_ for God's sake."

And while Father Patrick had the angelic features of a young Richard Chamberlin, this was the real world, and no way would he break his vows for someone like her. Not that she wanted him to, she told herself hastily. She looked heavenward and silently begged forgiveness for those sinful thoughts she hadn't the courage to confess to Father Patrick.

It was still slow-going to the hospital on the ice and snow-packed roads, but she made it there safely and went into the largest building in town. Her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Flynn, had fallen that morning on her icy sidewalk when retrieving the newspaper. Fortunately, Teresa had seen it all and come to her rescue, covering her with her own coat, holding her hand, and keeping her immobile till the ambulance arrived. Mrs. Flynn was in the hospital now with a broken hip, and since she had time before her shift started, Teresa came to check on her.

They'd placed Mrs. Flynn in a room with another patient, who was pale and unnaturally still. He was hooked up to many machines, their soft huffs and beeps filling the room. She set the vase of flowers she'd bought in the gift shop beside the old woman's bed, and spent a few minutes chatting, Mrs. Flynn going on and on about how Teresa had saved her life as well as her worry about her cat. After about twenty minutes, Teresa rose from the bedside chair, bending to kiss her frail cheek.

Just as she was leaving, a nurse named Mae came in to tend to the other patient. Teresa recognized her from other times she'd had dealings on the job with the hospital.

"That poor guy," commented Teresa. "Is he going to be all right?"

"We don't know," she said. "He was brought in by his son the night of the storm. His appendix ruptured and he fell into a coma."

"How terrible."

"Yeah," she said, recording his vitals on a clipboard at the foot of his bed. She paused and looked up thoughtfully from her work. "As a matter of fact, Lieutenant Lisbon, maybe you can help us out. His son didn't fill out any information about him, just left the hospital. He did call earlier today to check up on him, but hung up before we could ask him to fill in the blanks. All we know is the patient's first name. The son said he couldn't make it back to the hospital because of the roads, but he did sound concerned about his father. Maybe you could ask around town, find the son and help him get back here so we can get that information."

"Sure. I'll do what I can. What's the man's name?"

"Patrick," said Nurse Mae. "Or so his son called him on the phone."

Teresa started at the coincidence, but she immediately schooled herself into cop mode. "And you couldn't find any ID on him?"

"If there was, the son must have taken it with him when he left with his stuff."

"Was he in a car?"

"We're not sure. Probably though, since the son was the one who brought him into the ER."

"Do we have a physical description?"

"I wasn't there. You'll have to ask the ER nightshift crew. They come on at 10 tonight."

"Hmm. Okay; I'll look into this. If that fails, I'll come back with a fingerprint kit. Maybe we can find out more that way."

"Thanks, Lieutenant," said the nurse.

Teresa smiled. "Nothing I love more than a mystery, but it's a shame this poor guy has to be alone in the hospital like this."

"Especially at Christmas," Nurse Mae replied.

Teresa nodded. "Good night, Mrs. Flynn," she called to her neighbor. "I'll be sure to feed Whiskers."

"Thank you, Dear."

Xxxxxxxx

That night, Teresa and her partner, Cho, spent an hour or two on the case of the hospital mystery man, but after checking the area motels, inns, and homeless shelters, they found no one by the name of Patrick. The ER night shift crew was a bust too, as the only one who spoke to the son, the intake nurse, was on the road to Seattle to see her mother for Christmas.

"If the hospital doesn't hear from the son tomorrow, we'll get the patient's fingerprints," Teresa said to Cho, as they sat in Red's Diner during their late-night dinner break. It had been his turn to pick the spot to eat, and for the third night in a row, they found themselves in the familiar booth of the greasy spoon.

"I thought you hated that place," she'd said coyly, as he'd driven into the icy parking lot.

He'd shrugged. "Their BLT's aren't bad."

"Their new waitress isn't too bad either," she'd teased.

He'd made a noncommittal grunt, and she'd snorted as she got out of the police car and followed him inside, the bells on the glass door jingling merrily.

"Coincidence the new priest is named Patrick," said Cho now, munching absently on a French fry (a food item he normally steered clear of). Summer, the waitress, came by and refilled their coffee cups, and his dark eyes never left her. Teresa smiled to herself, but responded seriously to his statement.

"Patrick's a common enough name," she said.

"But weird two people named Patrick came into town that night under unusual circumstances."

"Father Patrick's a priest. Surely if his dad were in the hospital, he would have mentioned it, and certainly he wouldn't have abandoned him there without visiting."

"Can I interest you in something sweet?" asked Summer, smiling at Cho with warm humor. "Apple pie a la mode…"

"Homemade?" asked Cho, surprisingly tempted.

"By my own two little hands," she said proudly.

"You bake?" He sounded impressed, which was hard to do with Cho.

"Since I was ten and worked in my aunt's bakery. Would you like to taste my pie, Officer?" Her double entendre wasn't lost on either cop.

Cho swallowed hard, and Teresa covered her smirk with her coffee cup.

"Sure," he croaked, then cleared his throat and repeated himself.

"For you too, ma'am?" Summer asked Teresa politely.  
"No, thanks. My partner's the one with the sweet tooth."

"Good to know. I'll have that out right away."

When the cute waitress left, Cho actually kicked Teresa under the table, though not enough to hurt.

"What?"

"Cut it out."

"Get her number and I will."

"Maybe," he said, his eyes following Summer as she took a patron's order at the counter. "But only if the pie is good."

She saw the beginnings of a smile on his stoic face, but he suppressed it immediately. Teresa laughed, and took another bite of her cheeseburger.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I imagine you won't get very far without this," came the gruff, familiar voice of Corpsman's henchman.

Startled, Jane raised his head quickly, banging it on the raised hood of his borrowed car. He'd managed to get the ice off the door and windows and get inside again to start it, but when he'd turned the key, nothing had happened. Cussing a blue streak, he'd reached down and popped open the hood, then, using the flashlight he'd found in the glove box, peered at the Honda's innards. He'd immediately suspected the battery was dead, given the cold temperatures, but then, rubbing the back of his head, he looked up to find the henchman holding a shiny pair of spark plugs.

Jane lunged for them, but the other man's gun came out and Jane backed up, breathing heavily. The security light near the rectory door illuminated the man's satisfied grin.

"Just decided to take out a little insurance policy," he said, "should you decide to run away from your problems."

"I'm not running away from anything," Jane said. "I need a car to get around this one-horse town."  
"Yeah, right. Whatever you say, Patrick." He put the sparkplugs into the pockets of his shabby coat. He was still hiding behind the homeless garb, apparently. "Conmen are usually pretty selfish, so it'll be interesting to see how much you value these quaint little villagers. Heard anything from Daddy?"

"No. I left messages…what else can I do? So you'll kill innocent people because he hasn't gotten my messages? Makes no sense."

"Maybe not, but it'll bring balance to the world for the injustice Mr. Corpsman experienced when your father banged his wife."

"Jesus," Jane muttered, feeling more trapped than ever.

Just then, the lights of the Cannon River Police Department SUV shone on Jane and the henchman. Lieutenants Cho and Lisbon stepped out of the vehicle in unison, their boots crunching the hardened snow as they walked, the headlight beams lighting their way. Driving by the church was part of their nightly patrol.

"Need a jump, Father?" asked Teresa.

Jane slammed down the hood of the Honda. "No. I'm pretty sure my sparkplugs are out."

She glanced at the homeless man beside him. "This guy bothering you?"

"No. He was trying to help."

"What's your name," asked Cho. "Haven't seen you around here before."

"Name's Jed, Officer. I'm staying at the shelter."

Teresa nodded. "I saw him at the soup kitchen, then at Mass."

"Well, it's getting cold, and they're about to close the doors to the shelter for the night," said Cho. "You'd better get moving." If there was one thing Cho didn't like, it was loitering.

"Yes, sir, Officer sir," said Jed, in a pretty convincing imitation of kowtowing to law enforcement.

Jane watched Jed leave out of the corner of his eye, especially after, when the police's attention had left him, he moved his index finger and thumb in the form of a gun, and pointing at Teresa, pretended to shoot. Jane shivered, and not from the cold.

"Are you all right, Father?" asked Teresa, who had been telling him the automotive and hardware stores were closed now until after Christmas. "You haven't caught a chill?"

"I'm fine. It's just a little nippy out here. You two want to come in for some hot tea or coffee?"

Teresa sighed. "I'm sorry, Father, but we just had our dinner break. If you need a ride to my get-together tomorrow night, I'll come by about 7:30."

Jane smiled, putting all his attention on her and away from Jed's threats.

"That would be very considerate of you."

"OK. I'll see you then. Oh, and sorry about your car situation. Small towns, you know. The only thing open for a few days will be the diner and the bar. And even they will close Christmas Day."

"Yeah. I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

"And we just got word the bus won't even come this way until the next storm passes by. We're expecting more ice Christmas morning."

Well, there went that alternate escape plan. Even though he hadn't planned on using it, he felt even more trapped now, knowing that Teresa's and other lives depended on his either coming clean with her about his fraud or getting his own father killed. He needed some time to think, and he hoped Teresa would interpret all of his despondency on the broken down Honda.

"Well, good night, Lieutenant Lisbon. Cho."

They all said their goodbyes, and the two officers headed back to their SUV.

"At least he offered you tea this time," said Cho dryly, buckling up.

Teresa's smile was wide and dimpled. "He did, didn't he?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane read his Christmas Eve Mass in much the same way as the day before, and the numbers of the parishioners had increased two-fold. Teresa had not appeared, much to his strange disappointment, and he figured she must have to work the day shift in order to have Christmas Eve off for her party. He'd gone over his last performance in his mind and in the guidebook, and found that if he thought of this as a play, that he was an actor onstage, he felt much more confident. Acting was a big part of his regular "job", and this was no different. He knew a new kind of temptation, however, when the offering plate was passed around. When he saw the stack of cash and change afterwards, he saw it was more than enough to get him to Seattle. Had he really sunk so low, he wondered, as to take money from charity?

He put the tithing in an envelope and resolutely shut it in the priest's drawer, but the thought of it there tormented him the rest of the day, until it came time for Teresa Lisbon to pick him up. He wished he could wear one of the nice suits he'd left in the motel room in LA, one of which had been made by a local Italian tailor—a pretty good designer knock-off. He would have worn the blue silk shirt and matching tie, the color all the women said made his eyes look more blue than green. Instead, he put on his priest's garb, collar right-side up, consoling himself that at least he looked sharp in black. His hair combed back neatly from his freshly shaved face, he thought he would have made a good-looking priest. It was the vows of chastity and poverty that would have been the sticklers. Well, that and obedience.

He frowned at himself in the mirror, and went to grab his coat when he heard the toot of the lieutenant's horn.

Teresa's home was a cozy little Victorian house on a quiet street (they were all quiet streets in this town), which she told him she was renting. Everything about it was neat and tasteful and pretty, just like its tenant. Inside he smelled the freshness of pine from her live Christmas tree, the cinnamon from something she had baked. A crackling fire burned merrily in the fireplace and the lights from the tree flashed colorfully against gold tinsel. It was the kind of place Jane had always dreamed of having, those many Christmases stuck in the tin can of an Airstream.

"Your home is lovely," he said sincerely, his throat oddly tight.

She grinned. "Thank you, Father. Would you like a drink? The others should be here any minute." She took their coats and hung them on hooks in the foyer, and he silently admired her white, fluffy sweater, longed to feel if it was as soft as it looked.

"Some of that eggnog you mentioned would be heavenly."

"I have some with rum and without."

"With, Lieutenant. Definitely with." He tried not to look at the way her breasts filled out that sweater.

She chuckled and went to the kitchen.

"Would you mind putting on some music, Father?" she called. "The CD player is in the entertainment center."

"Sure." He went to look at the glassed-in shelves to the right of the fireplace, grinning at her selection of mostly 80's pop hits, but he saw a few Christmas CD's and figured that's what she would like. He popped them in the disc changer and the room filled with the dulcet tones of Nat King Cole.

In a few moments she brought in two glass mugs of cold eggnog; he could smell the rum as soon as she came into the room. He took it gratefully and took a fortifying drink, gasping in spite of himself.

"Wow…that's some stout stuff."

She laughed. "Sorry. I can get you the other if you—"

"No," he said. "I've just learned this particular ambrosia must be sipped and savored."

Her eyes were sparkling over the rim of her cup as she took a healthy draught with seemingly no affect at all.

 _Lieutenant Lisbon was quite the little lush_ , he thought wryly.

A knock at the door signaled the arrival of Cho. Much to Teresa's obvious surprise, he was not alone, but escorted a striking blonde in a sequined, red sweater, short black skirt and black tights. The residual ice hadn't scared her from wearing spiked Mary Jane heels.

"Summer!" exclaimed Teresa, recovering from her shock. "Welcome. Nice to see you."

"Thanks. Kimball said it would be all right if I came…and look: I brought pie." Sure enough, she held a round pan of pecan pie.

"That looks great. Everyone will be fighting over it. Oh, and you brought cheeseball, Cho!" It was his own special recipe, filled with a secret Korean ingredient, or so he said. Teresa thought it was probably just seasoning salt.

The pair entered and Cho shook the priest's hand, while Summer looked decidedly uncomfortable in the presence of a priest. Jane flashed her his million-dollar smile, and she seemed to forget immediately he was a man of the cloth, which was certainly his intent. Cho led her away protectively to follow Teresa into the kitchen, and Jane laughed to himself at the man's instinctive jealousy. The doorbell rang and the next to join them was Chief Minelli, and his plus one, the nurse from the hospital, Mae. Teresa hadn't known they were dating. Small world. No, small _town_ , she thought.

Introductions were made, and Mae appeared startled when she was told Jane was called Father Patrick.

"That's funny," she said. "I have a John Doe on my floor at the hospital whom we think is named Patrick. He's in a coma, poor man."

Jane tried not to choke on his eggnog. "Well that's interesting. Poor soul, to be alone in the hospital at Christmas."

"That's what I said," Teresa agreed, passing around more drinks. "Hey, maybe you could visit with him tomorrow, Father, offer him a blessing. The nuns usually visit the sick on Christmas Day."

"Maybe," Jane said blandly. "I'll certainly be praying for his speedy recovery." He wasn't lying with that statement, at least. The sooner the priest recovered, the sooner he'd have someone to back up his story.

"I told Lisbon to go get his fingerprints the day after Christmas," said Minelli to Mae. "If he's got a record, good or bad, we'll find out who he is."

"Good," she said. "I would hate to have no one there to make any life or death decisions, should he continue in this state."

Jane tried to change the subject. "With most of the Cannon River Police force here, who's minding the store?" he asked.

"We're all on call through Christmas, thanks to our dispatcher, Henry. I'll go in tomorrow to relieve him so he can have the day off."

"Nice of you, Chief," said Teresa.

"And that reminds me," Minelli continued, "you and Cho go easy on the eggnog."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenants said in unison, but when they toasted their glasses behind his back, Jane grinned.

No one seemed uncomfortable now but Jane, and he hoped he was hiding it well, considering all the police officers and the real priest's nurse were in attendance. They played a rousing game of _Win, Lose, or Draw_ , and he was teamed with Teresa. He was so unnaturally good at the game that the other guests began to complain that the whole thing was rigged.

"God just speaks the answers to me," he joked, but no one laughed heartily except Summer. He supposed they didn't know whether to take him seriously or not.

Next came _Trivial Pursuit,_ another game Jane excelled at. He had a near-photographic memory when it came to trivial knowledge, and he was well-read and interested in nearly every subject. The teams were mixed up so that his new partner was Mae. Jane and Mae won handily, much to the good-natured boos and hisses from the others.

They retired from the kitchen table to the living room, snacking on pecan pie, snickerdoodles, and Cho's famous cheeseball, and, of course, more alcohol, though the police in the room kept their promise and took it easy.

" _Minelli_ ," Jane mused aloud. "Italian, isn't it?"

"Yes. I got it on both sides."

"I don't mean to stereotype, but the likelihood of your being Catholic…"

Minelli smiled. "I am. Now your next question will be, why haven't you seen me in Mass, right?"

Jane held up both hands defensively. "Far be it for me to judge, Chief. Just curious."

Minelli swirled his warm brandy around in his glass. "You get to the point in your life, Father, when you either believe you have too many sins to forgive, or you're simply too damned near perfect to need church at all."

Everyone laughed.

"Which one are you?" asked Summer from her place on the love seat with Cho.

Minelli glanced at Mae, who was nestling tiredly against his shoulder. "A guy's gotta have some secrets. Keeps him interesting."

Summer grinned, and laced her fingers with Cho's, who squeezed her hand, blushing faintly.

"I'm thinking it's the former," said Jane seriously, amid the laughter. "But like I said, I'm not the one to be judging anybody."

"I'll save my sins for the confessional, if you don't mind, Father."

Jane nodded, then saluted him with his own glass of spirits. Minelli continued to stare at him thoughtfully.

By eleven o'clock, the party began to break up. Mae and Minelli were the first to plead tiredness. Teresa escorted them to the door among calls of farewell from the others.

"I hope you had a good time," she said, handing them their coats.

"Lovely," said Mae. "It was nice to be away from the hospital, meet new people. Father Patrick is a doll. Now there's a loss for womankind…"

Teresa silently agreed.

"If that man's a priest, I'm Mother Teresa," said Minelli.

"What?" said Teresa, looking with alarm over at Jane, who was laughing at something Summer had said.

"Oh, Virgil, be nice," chastised Mae. "You've had too much to drink." Minelli's blue eyes were a little bleary, and he handed Mae the keys, but he wasn't too tipsy to realize Teresa's dismay at his words.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Teresa. Too much eggnog. Lethal stuff. There probably should be a law…"

"Thank you, Teresa, and Merry Christmas," said Mae, laughing and pulling her date out the door. Mae had only imbibed the nonalcoholic eggnog, so Teresa wasn't worried.

"Merry Christmas," said Teresa absently, shutting the door behind them. _Why on earth would Minelli say such a thing?_

A few minutes later, the next couple took their leave, and Teresa forgot for awhile Minelli's disturbing accusation. She'd been watching how Cho and Summer had been sneaking surreptitious caresses, holding hands, and generally behaving in a smitten manner. She'd actually caught them coming out of the second floor bathroom together earlier, Summer's lipstick smeared, Cho's hair tousled, his tie askew. He actually grinned at her when they were leaving, his illusive dimples making a rare and charming appearance.

"Good night," said Teresa from her porch. "Drive carefully."

"Night," said Cho, who'd had exactly two drinks. Beside him on the walkway, Summer giggled girlishly and waved. She'd had considerably more.

"Night Teresa. Merry Christmas!"

Teresa came back into the house to find Jane clearing the plates and glasses from the coffee table and taking an armload into the kitchen, setting them carefully on the counter by the sink.

"You don't have to do that," she said. "Let me take you home. It'll be a big day for you tomorrow. Biggest day of the year for priests, I imagine."

At this, his face fell into an emotionless mask, and he seemed suddenly exhausted. He closed his eyes and leaned against the counter. She thought she heard him say, "I can't do this," but she might have been mistaken.

"Are you all right, Father?"

He paused, then turned back to look at her. "You always seem to be asking me that," he said.

She blushed. "I'm sorry. You just seem like you're constantly…out of sorts."

He gave a low, humorless bark of laughter. "Now that's an understatement."

One hand came up in agitation to brush back a wayward curl from his brows and she couldn't help that her eyes followed the movement with concern and longing. Jane caught her expression, and took a step toward her.

She froze, though her heart took off running in her breast. She watched him move as in slow motion, his footfalls light on the hardwood floor. His eyes were filled with a mixture of volatile emotions ranging from desire to frustration to anger. She was a cop, but she found herself a little bit frightened of his intensity. Not that he would hurt her, but—she took a step back anyway. He took another forward.

When he was close enough to touch her, his hands came up to grip her upper arms, holding her immobile before him. With her training, she knew she could easily escape, and hurt him pretty badly in the process.

But she didn't.

"You're a priest," she said shakily, her eyes still captured by his nearly hypnotic gaze.

Her words seemed only to inflame him more, for the next thing she knew, his mouth was covering hers. She released a harsh breath, and he took advantage of her slightly open mouth to plunder it with his determined tongue.

She'd always hated being kissed like this. _Ease up, buddy_. _Too much tongue_ , she would normally have said to herself. But with Father Patrick, the thought never entered her mind. With him it was erotic, sensual. Forbidden. He tasted of rum and nutmeg, more intoxicating than any Christmas posset.

Her passion rose quickly to the level of his, and she welcomed his aggression, seemed to feed off of it. Oh, she knew she would feel mortified later, horrified that she'd allowed this to happen, that she would likely be going to Hell now for corrupting a priest. But she was damned if she could stop herself from kissing him back. As he plundered her mouth, he was only a man, she, a passionate woman. God help her that she forgot she had no right to feel this way.

Father Patrick buried his hands in her hair, holding her head to better devour her mouth. He let out a moan of pleasure and pain as she pressed herself even closer to the hardness within his black slacks. His hands released her head to slip under her white sweater, cupping her breasts, thumbs sliding over firm nipples. He lifted his mouth from hers, only to nip at her neck, inhaling the delicious fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon.

"Jesus Christ," he swore, when her wandering hands caressed his buttocks.

It was like he'd thrown cold water on her, for in the next moment, he was pushed violently away. He stumbled, drunk on rum and desire. Her guilt and shock at what she had done—at _whom_ she had done it with—faded quickly into searing doubt.

Priests didn't take the Lord's name in vain. Priests didn't forget how to perform Mass. Priests didn't kiss lonely cop parishioners in their kitchens on Christmas Eve.

 _If he's a priest, I'm Mother Teresa._

 _…_ _weird two people named Patrick came into town that night under unusual circumstances._

The words of her two trusted colleagues echoed in her mind.

"Who the hell _are_ you?" she demanded, her voice strong even over the noise of her heartbeat and their heavy breathing.

He stared at her, wide-eyed, blaming the alcohol and her kind green eyes for this terrible slip.

"I'm nobody," he finally managed, his eyes bleak.

Abruptly, he strode from the room. Teresa stood where she was until she heard the rustle of his coat and the turning of the doorknob, and at last the surprisingly soft click as he closed her front door behind him.

She didn't go after him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

The cold night air went a long way toward easing Jane's desire, and he relished the punishing wind and the light, freezing mist that had begun to fall. The rectory was about a mile away from Teresa's, giving him plenty of time to work out in his mind what had come over him, and how the hell he might begin to fix things. Tomorrow was Christmas Day, and his time with Jed the henchmen will have run out. He was trapped in Cannon River, unless he stole another car, and his last option—telling the police his predicament—might have been ruined with his rash actions in Lieutenant Lisbon's kitchen. She might never believe him now.

Her question haunted him as he walked, slipping now and then on the icy pavement. _Who the hell_ _ **are**_ _you?_

Now that was the million-dollar question, wasn't it?

He reached the rectory, chilled to the bone, his freezing hands fumbling with the keys. He came inside to blessed warmth and roamed the small apartment like a caged lion, turning over his predicament in his mind. Kicking himself for his lack of self-control. Hadn't he berated his father for this very same weakness?

"How could I be so fuckin' stupid?" he asked the empty apartment.

But he knew why. It was those eyes, those sweet, soft lips of hers that had tempted him, that would have tempted a saint with much more willpower than him.

When his circuit took him into the study, he noticed a flashing light on the answering machine.

Had Teresa called him? The Mother Superior, wanting to pin him down on the Christmas Mass plans? Either option made his heart skip a beat.

He pressed the retrieve messages button, and after a moment, his father's voice spilled angrily from the little speaker.

"Where the hell are you, Paddy? I'm here in Portland at the Circle D, and you're nowhere to be found. Then I get a message to call? What gives? It's not a good idea when you go off the reservation without me, kid. Call me back. I'm in Room 116."

Jane erased the message and sat down heavily in the desk chair.

"Jesus Christ," he said for the second time that night. This time, it was a cry for help.

 **A/N: So thankful that you are reading this fic. I really appreciate your kind reviews. More soon.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: My continued thanks for the reviews, and for all those who support my writing and have always shown me such kindness and friendship. I really appreciate you.**

 **Chapter 4**

Teresa awoke Christmas morning to a strange conundrum. She couldn't decide whether kissing a priest was worse than kissing a man _pretending_ to be a priest. On the one hand, if Patrick really _was_ a priest, then she had committed what was likely (she'd have to read up on this to be sure) a mortal sin by tempting him from his vows. On the other hand, if he wasn't a priest, her soul was probably safe but her heart was not, for that would mean he had lied to her and the entire congregation, had manipulated them, conned them, for some sick, sociopathic reason only God and Patrick Whoever-he-was knew.

If she were completely honest with herself, she could probably survive in either case, if only she knew that their kisses had been real, had meant something to him, for she had never felt such intense passion for anyone else in her life. Sure, she had very limited experience (she could count her sleeping partners on one finger), but this man, with one encounter, had set the bar incredibly high for every man in her future. But this wasn't necessarily a good thing, Teresa realized. Did she really want someone that was so overwhelmingly charismatic that she forgot her basic moral values and allowed a priest to kiss her?

She shook her head to herself, turning her face into her pillow as the tears began to slip down her face in earnest. She gave herself exactly five minutes to cry. She wept for her own naivete. She wept for what might have been with such a beautiful, sensual man. She wept for the loneliness that she'd tamped down for so long for the sake of her career, which now she could no longer deny. And most of all, she wept for what she had to do now: confront Father Patrick, or the conman that he was.

Five minutes later, she dragged herself out of bed and got ready for the day. She needed to bolster her confidence, so she put on her green Cannon River PD uniform, even though she was technically only on-call. She'd planned to wear her prettiest dress to Christmas Mass, but that idea, like everything else in her life, had been turned upside down. She dabbed concealer beneath her puffy eyes and powdered her nose, but having no desire to encourage Patrick's romantic interest, that was the extent of her makeup. After fastening her hair into a serviceable, professional bun, her uniform was complete. She stared at herself in the full-length mirror, took a deep breath, felt the familiar sense of calm and competence her hard-earned position had always given her.

"You can do this, Teresa," she said to her reflection. "You've interrogated criminals before. If he's a conman, he's no different. If he's not…well, you'll just have to find another church…"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The last priest, Father John, had not been a night person, so he'd never subscribed to the Midnight Mass tradition. Instead, Christmas Mass was on Christmas morning at Saint Andrew's, and the practice had stuck. By the time Teresa reached the church, the parking lot was half-filled, despite the latest round of snow from the night before.

As she drove around the rectory, she saw the priest's car still parked near the door. He hadn't left by that means, given the problems with his spark plugs, and she ignored the surge of hope she felt that he might not have left at all. She pulled in behind the Honda, got out of her SUV to kick the ice from the rear license plate. She jotted down the number on her notepad, and spent a few minutes on the radio, asking Henry back at the station to run the plate. She'd get back to him later.

That done, she parked in the church lot and went inside, smiling at the other parishioners who greeted her warmly. One of the nuns was playing Ave Maria on the organ, and the beautiful music filled the chapel. Teresa gritted her teeth against her sudden emotion.

Sister Grace met her anxiously near the vestibule, though she tried to hide her obvious distress.

"Have you seen Father Patrick, Lieutenant?" she asked softly.

Teresa's stomach turned over. So he'd fled after all.

"No. As a matter of fact, I needed to speak to him before the service. You checked the rectory?"

"Yes. I knocked, but the door was ajar, so I opened it a bit and called inside. There was no answer, and I've looked everywhere else. I've been afraid to tell Reverend Mother he's missing…"

"Don't worry. I'll look for him, and give any bad news to Reverend Mother, myself."

"Oh, thank you, Lieutenant. God bless you."

Teresa paused, scanning the room for Father Patrick, her eyes passing over the homeless man, Jed, who was sitting by himself in a front pew. For a moment, she felt sorry for the man, as well as the other people sitting patiently, waiting for the priest to uplift them on this holy day. They would be sorely disappointed if they had to be without another priest again.

She went back to the rectory, pushed open the door and searched every room in the small apartment. Father Patrick wasn't there, but his belongings were. A few black shirts and slacks hung in the closet, his underwear and socks folded neatly in the bureau drawers. The duffle bag on the closet floor was empty. Telling herself she had a reasonable suspicion of fraud, she looked carefully through the bureau drawers, as well as the one in the nightstand. She found no clues to his identity. It was painful to smell the familiar scent of his light cologne still lingering in the air, painful to see the unmade bed where he had slept.

The desk in the study yielded nothing either, though she found an envelope marked _Offering, December 22_ , and when she shook it, she heard the jingling of coins, felt the light weight of loose bills inside. That was one point for him; he hadn't absconded with the church's money. Finishing her search, she sighed in frustration. If she didn't find him, there were likely lots of his fingerprints in this apartment that would help her discover who he really was.

Before she left the rectory, she glanced at her watch. Still ten minutes before Mass was scheduled to begin. He could still make it. She found she was rooting for him in her heart to be who he said he was, and their kiss—passionate as it was—could be forgiven. He could continue to be a priest—just not _her_ priest.

She walked around the perimeter of the chapel toward the short hall that would lead to the kitchen, and along the way she passed the ornately carved confessional box. The side where the penitent would sit was empty, she saw, so he wasn't trapped in there hearing a confession, but when she walked by the priest's side, she noted the curtain was closed.

"Teresa," came a harsh whisper. She stopped short, looking around the church in startle. No one was paying any attention to her. Most people were either sitting patiently or whispering quietly to one another. The whisper had definitely come from the confessional.

"Get in," said the disembodied voice. With another quick look to be sure no one was watching, she slid into the penitent side of the booth and drew the curtain. It was fairly dark inside, and she realized guiltily that it had been too long since she had sat in this place. She could see Father Patrick's faint outline through the wooden holes of the small divider, and her heart squeezed when she caught his scent for the second time that day.

"Forgive me, Teresa, for I have sinned," he said ironically, his voice warm honey.

She swallowed. "I'm not the one with the power to absolve you, Father."

"Nevertheless, I want your forgiveness. As you probably have guessed, I am no priest."

She let his confession settle over her, disappointment rendering her momentarily speechless. He, however, continued to speak, his voice now urgent and clipped.

"I don't have time to explain, but you need to know that we are all in danger here. All I will tell you now is that the homeless man, Jed, is not really homeless. He works for a businessman in LA. He's threatened to kill me and these good people here, most especially you, if I don't turn my father over to his boss. As much as my dad deserves it, I can't do it, so we are at a dangerous impasse."

"Now, let me get this straight—"

"There's no time for particulars, Teresa. I saw him come in earlier. I was waiting for him in the rectory, but he came in through the church entrance and I missed him. I was able to duck in here without his seeing me. Now he's lying in wait for me."

"Patrick—is that really your name?"

"Yes. Patrick Jane."

"Mr. Jane, you've lied since the moment you came into this town, impersonated a priest, for God's sake. How the hell am I supposed to believe anything you say?"

"Language, Lieutenant. We're in church."

"Oh, go to hell. Before I do anything else, I want some answers."

He was obstinately silent.

"Well?"

"Oh, you want me to talk now? You just told me to shut up."

"Mr. Jane—"

"I like it better when you call me Patrick."

"Mr. Jane—"

His voice turned deadly serious. "We honestly don't have time for this, Teresa. You will just have to have a leap of faith, and when you get that asshole out there, I'll explain everything, I swear on a stack of Bibles. Do you have your gun on you?"

"No." She never carried her sidearm in church.

"Oh please. You're in uniform. I bet you have another strapped to your calf. Don't lie Teresa, you're in a confessional."

"Yes, I have it."

"Well, sneak up behind him and point it at his head. I swear by all that is holy that this man means business, and someone's going to get hurt if he isn't stopped."

"I can't do that; he hasn't done anything yet. We're in the middle of church on Christmas Day. I'm not scaring these people for no reason. But I'm not discounting what you say, okay?"

She paused a moment, her years of training and cool thinking in an emergency kicking in at last. For the sake of those people out there, she would have to take that leap of faith and believe a conman.

"The first thing I'm going to do is call Cho in for backup," she said.

Teresa took the radio off her belt, and, turning it to low, spoke into the receiver. "Henry, get Cho to Saint Andrew's asap. Tell him to come in through the rectory and I'll meet him there. We've got a situation here; a man is possibly armed and dangerous. You got that?"

"Lisbon, it's me." Minelli's gruff voice crackled over the radio. "What the hell is going on?"

"Just what I said, Chief. I need backup right away. I got a tip that he's threatened to kill people in here, but nothing's happened yet. He's just sitting in a front pew, waiting for the priest to get here."

"He's threatened the priest?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll call Cho, but I'm on my way."

"I'll meet you in the rectory, sir, but you should probably come in quietly, just in case. No sirens. Lisbon, out." She holstered her radio. "Stay in here, Mr. Jane. Don't let him see you."

"Don't worry about that, Teresa."

She peaked through a crack in the curtains, saw that Jed was still in the front pew.

"Before you go, Teresa…no matter what happens, what we shared last night—I—well, it's not something I'll be confessing to anytime soon. Despite everything else I have done, kissing you wasn't a sin. It was…heaven."

It was what she had longed to hear from him, but she didn't know this man, and she certainly didn't trust him, not after he did something so blasphemous as to impersonate a priest. She couldn't deny the leap of her heart, however. But she couldn't summon anything to say to his impassioned words, so she left him with a repeat of her order: "Stay here."

He stayed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

At exactly 10:00, the time Christmas Mass was scheduled to begin, Corpsman's hitman, Jed, stood up and pulled out a gun from beneath his raggedy overcoat and turned to the congregation of Saint Andrew's Catholic Church.

"Everyone, stay where you are! Patrick Jane, I hope for all these people's sakes you are within earshot of my voice, and that you have your good-for-nothing daddy with you, or no one's gonna have a Merry Christmas!"

The organ stopped abruptly, and people screamed at the sight of the gun, then huddled on the floor between the pews, some crying softly, most praying in shaky whispers.

Inside the confessional, Jane cringed and prayed, himself, for the first time in years. He closed his eyes, his breathing loud in the small enclosure.

 _Where are you, Teresa?_

"I'm gonna count to five, Paddy, and then I start shooting these fine folks. One. Two. Three—"

"Wait!" cried Jane, stepping out of the confessional, his hands in the air. "Don't shoot! Please."

All eyes rested on the man whom they thought was their brave priest, coming to their rescue.

"Aw, Father Patrick. How nice of you to join us on this fine Christmas morning." He mockingly took on an exaggerated Irish accent.

"Put the gun down, Jed," Jane said, hoping he sounded soothing and calm. He looked into the gunman's eyes, summoning his skills as a hypnotist as he slowly walked toward the front of the church. But either Jed was resistant to such tricks, or Jane's focus was shaky at best, for Jed merely laughed.

"You gonna tell your _congregation_ what a charlatan you are? How you've duped them for days, did all kinds of blasphemous things. Hell, you even kissed that lady cop. I know this because I was watching through her window last night."

There were gasps of surprise, and several people on the floor crossed themselves. Jane's eyes narrowed in anger at the thought of what this asshole had witnessed, an intimate moment as holy to him as this church was to Teresa. Now, he was ruining the good cop's reputation.

"It doesn't have to be like this," Jane ground out. "Let's get out of here and I'll tell you where my father is."

Jed's expression grew deadly serious, his voice rising with impatience. "You'll tell me where your goddamn father is right now, or I kill you and as many people in here as I have bullets. Starting with her!" He pointed his gun at the head of an elderly woman in the front row, who cried out and clutched at her heart.

A gunshot rang through the air, loud and echoing in the vaulted church. But it was Jed who yelped and dropped his gun, his left hand immediately covering the wound in his right shoulder.

Jane ran for the gun on the floor and picked it up, aiming it at Jed, who was cussing a blue streak over his injury. Teresa, still pointing her own weapon at the henchman, walked swiftly down the aisle toward him.

"Get down on the ground!" she ordered. "Both of you. Drop the weapon, Mr. Jane, now!"

With a wounded expression, Jane did as he was told, lowering his body to the floor as Teresa kicked Jed's gun away.

"Teresa—" Jane began from his place on the carpet.

"Shut up, Jane. Just shut up."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jed was taken to the hospital, but Jane was put in the holding cell at the Cannon River Police Department. He paced back and forth behind the bars, reliving the moments in the church over and over again. He found that nothing—not even Jed pointing the gun at him-nothing had upset him more than Teresa's blank expression when Cho and Minelli arrived and she handcuffed him as he lay on the carpeted floor of the church. Minelli had taken Lisbon's weapons until a formal inquiry into the shooting could be made, and she had gone to the hospital to question Jed.

Lisbon hadn't said a word to him before she left, and Cho had handled taking Jane's statement, sitting across from him at his desk, filling in the blanks of the form loaded on the typewriter.

"Name?"

"Patrick Jane." Cho's fingers clicked on the keys.

"Address?"

"None in particular, though last place I lived was LA at the Red Brick Inn." After he typed a few more bits of information without asking anything of Jane, he turned to him and asked him point blank:

"So, why were you impersonating a priest?"

"Well, that's sort of a long story."

Cho stared expectantly at him, his fingers still poised on the typewriter. It was disconcerting, really, and Jane made a mental note to ask Cho sometime how he'd perfected that persuasive stare. Jane sighed and began to tell his story, from the time he got the call from his father that night in LA to the moment Jed pulled out his gun in the church. Naturally, he skipped over the part where he'd kissed Teresa senseless in her kitchen.

"And the real priest is in the hospital in a coma, so can't corroborate anything that happened in the bar the other night," Cho repeated for clarity.

"Unfortunately not," said Jane. "But his car and personal stuff are still at the rectory. You can find his wallet on the bookshelf behind the biggest King James Bible. You can see why I didn't bother telling you guys what happened."

"No," said Cho.

"You wouldn't have believed me," said Jane. "Just like you don't now."

"Guess you'll never know," Cho said. "Where's your father?"

On this point, Jane would not budge. He hated his father, but Jane was no snitch. "I don't know," he lied.

"Why are you protecting him, if he's the one responsible for what happened in the church today? He could have gotten you and innocent people killed."

Jane shrugged. "He's a heartless bastard, but he's my father."

Cho nodded once. "Suit yourself."

The cop finished typing Jane's statement, then, after taking his picture and fingerprinting him, hauled him back to the holding cell. He would be charged with auto theft and fraud. He hadn't bothered asking for his phone call. There was no one he could call for this, and he couldn't afford a lawyer anyway.

"Could you ask Teresa to come here for a minute?"

"I'll ask, but I wouldn't get your hopes up."

The barred door had slammed in his face, and Jane was left to stew in his misery, by turns reliving the moment Jed pointed his gun at him and the instant Jane's lips had met Teresa's.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane had managed to doze a bit on the jail cell cot before the sound of the outermost door opened, admitting the soft footfalls of a young woman. Jane sat up, hoping to see Teresa, but not surprised when it was not.

"Father Patrick?" asked Sister Grace, Cho as her escort.

"Will you be okay alone here, Sister?" asked Cho, eyes narrowing on Jane.

"Of course, Kimball. Father Patrick won't hurt me."

Cho shook his head, but didn't argue with her. "I'll leave this outer door open. Call if you need me."

Jane rose and walked to the bars of his cage. He could smell something mouthwatering emanating from the basket she held, recognized that same smell from the church earlier. The nuns had been preparing Christmas dinner in the soup kitchen, and apparently Sister Grace had brought him a bit of it.

"I thought you might be hungry, Father." She took a foil-covered plastic plate from the basket and slid it through the slot in the cell bars. Jane took it gladly, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. But before he opened it, he met Grace's eyes.

"Thank you, Sister, but you must have heard by now…I am no priest."

"I had heard, but I didn't want to assume anything until you told me directly. People are wrongfully accused all the time…."

Jane shook his head. "I wasn't. Well, except I didn't steal the real Father Patrick's car. Not exactly anyway—it's a long story. But I did let you believe I was him, and that was wrong of me. I apologize for that, sincerely."

He moved to the cot and sat down with his plate. "May I?"

"Please eat," she said with a smile. "That's why I brought it."

"Does the Reverend Mother know you're here?"

"Well, no, but she always taught us to be charitable. So I'm here, doing God's work. I have others to visit in the hospital too."

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. No way he was looking this pretty gift horse in the mouth.

He removed the foil to reveal a couple of thick slices of turkey in gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing, and even a slice of pumpkin pie. The gravy had gotten on the pie, but he didn't mind in the least. He unrolled the paper napkin wrapped round the plastic silverware and dug in.

"This is delicious," he said over a mouthful of turkey.

"Thank you. I'll tell the sisters you like it."

Jane paused after his second bite. "You know," he ventured thoughtfully, pointing toward her with his fork. "This is sort of all _your_ fault."

Her sherry eyes widened. "What?"

"Yeah. I had no intention of pretending to be a priest, but you remember that first night when I showed up in the church? You immediately assumed I was the new priest, and since I had no other explanation as to why I had come into the rectory, I felt pressured by you to assume that role." He took a bite of stuffing. "So you see, you share at least…forty-five percent of the blame here."

"Forty-five percent?" she repeated with a furrowed brow.

"Yes, I'd say that's fair." But he smiled at her to show he was teasing.

"Is that why you really did this?"

"Well, I admit you put the thought in my head. I could have denied it, come up with some other credible explanation, but I didn't want to make you suspicious. The truth was, it seemed sort of…cool to be a priest. And I genuinely liked the real Father Patrick. I only wanted to pretend for the night, but the storm stranded me here…and by then I was in too deep."

"Are you even a Catholic?" she asked him.

"Would that make this in any way okay?"

She grinned. "Probably not in the eyes of the church, but it would make a difference to me…and to God, I imagine."

"As luck would have it then, I _am_ a Catholic, so you can forgive yourself for your own gullibility, Sister. I'm a pretty good conman."

"You don't have to be," she said, watching him attack his pie with gusto. "I could tell you liked helping people at the soup kitchen, and even when you spoke to the parishioners you enjoyed it. I don't think you were faking."

Her perceptive words touched him. "You're right sister, I did enjoy it. But don't tell anyone; it would ruin my bad reputation."

She smiled. "So what are you going to do now?"

"Well, unless the real Father Patrick wakes up, I have no one but a hitman to corroborate what happened before I came to the rectory last night, so I guess I'll end up spending a lot of time behind bars."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I wish I could help you. I'll pray for you."

"Thank you, Sister. Prayers are about all that might save me now."

"Or maybe Lieutenant Lisbon," she said, and he saw to his amusement Sister Grace had a sly side.

"Just what do you mean by that, Sister?"

She shrugged. "I noticed how you looked at her, but when I thought you were a priest, I put it out of my mind as part of my imagination. You were just being kind as a priest to his parishioner, I told myself. It would be a terrible sin if you were showing a romantic interest in her."

Jane smirked. "But instead I was sinning by pretending to be a priest. I don't know which sin is worse, Sister."

"I think breaking your vows as a priest would be a thousand times worse, Fath—I mean, Mr. Jane, though most sins are the same before God."

"Call me Patrick. That really is my name—one of the few things about me that isn't a lie."

"So, Patrick, maybe Teresa feels the same way about you and will let you go free."

"From your lips to God's ears, Sister. But I don't think that'll happen. She's too mad at me right now. I lied to her, confused her, made her question herself and her faith. That's pretty unforgiveable."

"Nothing is unforgiveable, Patrick. Teresa has a good heart, and God will work through her, I just know it. You must have faith."

But he still looked skeptical. He rose from the cot and returned the empty plate and dirty plastic ware. "Thanks again for dinner. I was starving."

"You're more than welcome." She deposited the trash back in the basket on her arm and turned to go, but Jane suddenly didn't want her to leave, was enjoying her sunny disposition and inspiring optimism.

"Why did you become a nun, Sister?" he asked her, and she hesitated, eyes downcast as she needlessly adjusted her basket. When she looked up, she seemed to be gazing far off into the distant past.

"When I was eighteen," she began, "my high school sweetheart, Wayne joined the Marine Corps. Not long after, Iraq invaded Kuwait, and he was sent over to fight in Desert Storm. He was killed when his barracks was bombed. We had planned to be married." There was a bittersweetness in her tone, but he could tell that she had made her peace with his passing.

"I'm sorry," he said genuinely.

"Thank you. After he died, I didn't want to go on, but I found strength in the church, in my faith. I knew in my heart there was no other man out there for me anymore, that the only One I could ever love now was Jesus Christ. I haven't regretted my decision, not once. I know this is what He wants of me, that the church is my life now. Wayne's death led me to my true calling, and I know in my heart he wouldn't have begrudged me this choice."

Jane was touched by her story, at the pain she must have endured, at the sacrifice she had made in her young life. He admired her commitment, and he found himself wishing that he was capable of committing himself to something worthwhile like that.

"I've known a few nuns, Sister, and you are truly one of the kindest I have ever met."

"Everything that I do is to serve God," she said simply. "That is my purpose in this life. I'll pray that you find yours. Have faith. God will find a way. Merry Christmas, Patrick."

He watched her leave, felt the warmth of her light disappearing with her until there was nothing left but the coldness of his cell.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa watched Patrick Jane sleep on the cot in the Cannon River lockup with a mixture of emotions. He still looked so beautiful and angelic that she wanted to cry, but she knew all about him now, who he really was.

Orange County PD in California had faxed over his file. Patrick Jane had lived his whole life as a conman, first in the carnival circuit as a sort of fortune teller known as the Boy Wonder. His mother had died when he was very young, and his father had kept him on the road with the carnival, denying him a formal education, using him to pull in the money from gullible customers. After the carnival, the pair moved on to bigger and better things, apparently. They'd both been arrested for fraud a number of times, but none of the accusations had stuck. It seemed that after their marks' anger had died down, they were too embarrassed to take the case further. Now, with Roger Corpsman, they'd gone from small potatoes to the big time. Only problem was, they'd tried to con a jealous man with more than enough money to pay a hitman, or so Jed Carson had confirmed.

"I ain't going down for this alone," he'd said from his hospital bed earlier, his good hand handcuffed to the rail. They had him on hostage taking, weapons charges, and blackmail. He was trying to get a deal by turning over the big fish, which meant confessing he was hired by Corpsman.

"Corpsman paid me twenty-five grand plus expenses to track down Alex Jane and put a bullet in his head for fucking his wife. When I couldn't find him, I used his son, who was much easier to find since he was stuck here because he helped that damn priest to the hospital. Kid should have learned by now that no good deed goes unpunished. A little blackmail, a little strategic pressure, and I could have gotten a big bonus from Corpsman by disposing of the son too." He'd frowned at Teresa in annoyance. "No thanks to you."

"But Mr. Jane never told you where his father is?" she'd asked him.

"No, the idiot. He could have made things so much easier for everyone. If I were him, I woulda turned over that worthless excuse for a father without a second thought. The kid had already stopped working with him, had a pretty sweet job working here with a sexy broad like you as a side game."

It was all Teresa could do not to punch the bastard in the nose.

She'd run the license plates from the Honda in the rectory parking lot, found the real priest's hidden ID, and identified the man in the coma from his picture as Father Patrick Doyle, lately of Sacramento, California. She'd visited the unconscious man while she was at the hospital, Nurse Mae telling her that sadly, there was no change. While Teresa was there, she'd visited her neighbor Mrs. Flynt, whose niece had arrived to take care of things when she was transferred to a rehabilitation hospital the next day.

Now, back at the police department, Teresa stood just outside the holding cell, contemplating the man at the center of all the Christmas uproar in her little town. It was a shame really, she thought, trying to be dispassionate. Jane had done some good things—helped out the real priest, gotten away from his manipulative father, yet still protecting him from a hitman. She remembered him serving meals in the soup kitchen, speaking so kindly (albeit as a fake priest) to the older parishioners, patting the heads of the children. There'd been something so genuine about his affection and attention toward them, that she found it hard to believe it was _all_ a lie.

Then, of course, there was that kiss in her kitchen last night. The more she thought of it, the more she was certain that what she'd felt from him had been real. His words in the confessional earlier had confirmed it, but she was afraid to fall for the line of a proven conman. He'd lied about so many things, deceived so many people, that she didn't want to make herself into an even bigger fool by believing her heart over her head.

And yet, as she stared at him, she blinked back tears. God help her, she _wanted_ to believe him, wanted _him._

"You just gonna stare at me all day, Lieutenant," came his amused drawl from his place on the cot. "Or would you like to come in here and join me?"

His eyes were still closed, and she realized with a start he'd been awake this entire time. She felt unreasonably angry that he'd duped her again. Nothing like righteous anger to harden one's resolve.

"Cho said you wanted to see me," she said brusquely.

He opened his eyes and sat up, and she grimaced at the sight of him, still in his stolen priest's garments, though at least he'd removed the collar. It was sinful how good the man looked in black. She made a note to have Henry retrieve Jane's civilian clothes from the rectory.

"Yes. I wanted to know if you'd checked on Father Patrick's condition."

"Ah, so he can corroborate your story about not stealing his car?"

He rose to stand at the bars of the cell, and she forced herself not to flee in terror.

"Yes, that too. But he's a nice guy. I want him to be okay."

She eyed him a moment, gauging his sincerity, felt her heart melt a little. "No change," she said gruffly.

"I'm genuinely sorry to hear that."

"Well, if that's all you wanted—" She took a step away from the cell.

"Teresa, wait. Please, don't go. It's damn lonely in this joint."

"That's the idea. You should be contemplating your crimes, maybe praying for forgiveness…"

"I actually have been. Well, at least rethinking my choices." His eyes sparkled at her with heartbreaking familiarity.

Her lips quirked. "That's a start, I guess. I hear Sister Grace brought you lunch, so you shouldn't need anything else for a while. It's not The Ritz here, but until the court appoints a lawyer for you, you should be comfortable enough. That won't happen till at least tomorrow."

"I've actually stayed in worse, believe me," he said dryly, glancing around.

They were both quiet a moment, awkwardness mixed with sensual awareness filling the space around them.

"I'd give anything to kiss you again," he said suddenly, his hands grasping the bars as he put his face as far between them as he could. His blue-green eyes were warm with desire, his handsome face framed by the bars of his cage, and she couldn't look away. She felt her face flush as his eyes settled on her mouth, then moved back up to her green eyes.

"Shut up," she breathed shakily, before forcing her voice to sound stronger. "I will never make that mistake again. You used me. Tricked me. Fooled the whole damn town. I hope you rot in here."

As she turned away, he reached out and managed to grab her hand. He pulled her hard back toward him, and she stumbled against the bars, her other hand going up at the last minute to save herself from hitting her head. She was now face to face with him, and he managed a quick press of his lips to hers from between the bars. Her breath caught and she leaned in closer in spite of herself. Before she could pull away, his mouth ravaged hers, his hand coming up to hold the back of her head in place. She was caught-physically, emotionally, sexually, and for a few fleeting moments, she couldn't find the strength to resist him. When he began raining kisses over her heated face, she stepped back at last, escaping the hands that had moved to her breasts, the full lips that were working their way inexorable back to hers.

"Teresa," he cried, bereft at her sudden absence.

Her hand went to her mouth, already swollen and still throbbing with passion. She stared at him, wide eyed and shocked at herself. With a stifled sob, she left him there, breathing heavily, to bang his head in frustration against the cold metal bars.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho hadn't been spying, exactly, but he'd glanced from time to time for safety's sake at the black and white monitor near his desk that showed the small jail cell where Lisbon was meeting with Patrick Jane. He was just watching out for his partner, just as she would for him. When he glanced again a few minutes later, he was only mildly surprised to see Lisbon kissing their prisoner. There was no sound, but he looked away, giving her her privacy, a wave of sadness washing over him.

He had only recently found a chance at love with Summer, and now, finally, Lisbon had found someone she was interested in, but who was the completely wrong guy for obvious reasons. He'd noticed her attraction to the man even when they all thought he was a priest (though Cho had had his doubts on that score too) and he'd worried for her. He didn't want to see her used, didn't want her to commit what he knew she believed would be a mortal sin getting involved with a priest. Not to mention what that had said about a man who had made a vow to God and broken it. She hadn't spoken of it, but Lisbon must be completely confused now that she knew he'd been impersonating a priest. Poor kid.

Cho heard the door to lockup slam, heard Lisbon go into the restroom and turn on the water. It was a small office, and there could never be many secrets here. She came out a few minutes later, cheeks blotchy, eyes a little red. She avoided looking at him in her embarrassment, but then her face turned white when she noticed the monitor and Patrick Jane, lying on his cot again, staring up at the ceiling.

"I'll delete that," he muttered.

"Thanks," she whispered. She sat at her desk near his and put her head in her hands. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

He didn't bother telling her Jane was bad news; he was pretty sure she already knew that.

"Sometimes we can't help who we fall for," he said sagely.

It made Lisbon smile, and she looked up from her hands. "Said the guy whose sleeping with a totally inappropriate waitress."

Cho smirked, but said nothing.

The phone rang, and Lisbon answered it. Since they had had to come in to work to handle the Jane and Jed situation, they'd sent Henry and Minelli home for what was left of the holiday.

"Cannon River Police Department," she said into the phone.

"Teresa? This is Mae. How would you like a Christmas miracle?"

 **A/N: The conclusion is up next. Thanks so much for reading.**


	5. Conclusion

**A/N: So here is the conclusion of another of my crazy little ideas. Thanks so much for taking a chance on reading this, and a special thanks to my loyal and tolerant friends on Twitter. Peace comes through mutual respect and understanding. God bless you all.**

 **P.S.: There's some M-rated stuff in this chapter, so be advised.**

 **Chapter 5: Conclusion**

For the second time that Christmas Day, Teresa stood in the hospital room at the foot of the real Father Patrick's bed. On this occasion, however, she could put a name to the face on the pillow, and could see the pale blue eyes of the priest, open now, and relatively alert. He was still on some heavy pain medication and antibiotics, but Mae had assured her he was up to answering a few brief questions.

"Father," she said, "I'm so glad to see you are awake. You had quite an ordeal. They're calling you a Christmas Miracle."

His eyes flashed with faint humor. "It's Christmas already? Boy, I've been out a few days, haven't I? And here I had spent so much time on my sermon."

Teresa smiled. "I know we'll definitely want to hear it the moment you're up to it."

"Oh, nice to meet someone from my new congregation. And a police officer to boot."

"Oh, I'm sorry…I'm Lieutenant Teresa Lisbon, Cannon River PD."

"We'll be ensured of our security then, both in this life and the next."

"I pray you're right, Father." She paused, summoning up the right words to ask him about Jane. "Do you remember anything about the night you were admitted here?"

He hesitated, trying to piece together what had happened through the blurriness of pain and strong medication. "I remember driving into town, going to a bar to get a drink. I admit I was a little nervous about starting at a new parish. I'd been in Sacramento for twenty years."

Teresa nodded. "Did you talk to anyone in the bar?"

He thought a moment. "Yes…I met a young man. Good looking fella, mid-twenties." He grinned suddenly, as the memories flooded back. "His name was Patrick too. He was passing through town—just got off the bus—we had a nice conversation. Then…then I starting feeling terrible, and I asked him to drive me in my car to the hospital. He had a really kind heart, but seemed a little lost. Raised Catholic, but had fallen away from the church…" Father Patrick frowned suddenly. "Pardon me for being a bit slow right now, but the fact that you're a police officer asking me questions just sank in. Is there something wrong? Did I break some law here in Cannon River?"

"No, no, of course not," she hurried to assure him. "I have some concerns about the man named Patrick you met in the bar. You see, once you were admitted to the hospital, he took your car and drove to the rectory, where he used your keys to get inside. He's been staying there the last few days."

Father Patrick's brow furrowed. "I was under the impression he didn't have much money, and he had missed his bus because of me. I don't have any problem with his staying in my home out of the storm. It's the least I could do for his help."

"I'm afraid he's been doing more than that, Father. He's been pretending to _be_ you."

"What?"

"Patrick Jane has been pretending to be you, Father Patrick," she repeated. "He's given Mass, worked in the soup kitchen, spoken to your parishioners as if we were his own. He's even worn your holy vestments and slept in your bed. Patrick Jane's nothing but a conman."

To Teresa's immense surprise, Father Patrick began to laugh. He moaned in pain after a moment, but his eyes still crinkled at the corners in amusement.

"That boy's certainly got the uh…chutzpah. He read Mass, you say?" He chuckled softly to himself. "That kid must have been something else to have gotten away with that performance…"

Teresa blushed. She couldn't deny that she had been the biggest dupe of them all. "He made plenty of mistakes; but no one wants to doubt a priest, Father, so no one said anything. I think we attributed his missteps to nerves."

"And I'll bet he had those in spades…" He seemed to drift off for a minute, and Teresa watched his serene face and closed lids, wondering if she should wake him to continue the conversation. Just when she thought to give up for the day, he opened his eyes again. "Sorry…these drugs they have me on…If Patrick's a conman, are you here because he stole from the church? Hurt someone?"

"No—no one's been hurt. I mean, Mr. Jane hasn't hurt anyone. We thought he had stolen your car, but if you're confirming you gave your permission for him to drive it…"

"I did," said the priest. "I had left him without transportation, so I suppose it was logical for him to assume he could use my car while I was in the hospital. He didn't leave town with it, he stuck around—that shows me he didn't have any real nefarious intentions, Lieutenant."

She didn't comment. The ice storm, car trouble, the specter of Jed the hitman hanging over his head—those were the things that had kept Patrick Jane in town, she suspected. Not the priest. Not the goodness of his heart. Certainly not _her_. But she so wanted to think the best of him, wanted him to be the kind of man she wouldn't feel disgusted with herself for kissing.

"Teresa…may I call you Teresa? Forgive me, but you seem to have more than a professional interest in Patrick's activities. He's hurt you personally, hasn't he?" His tone was gently probing.

She blushed. "It's been a confusing time, Father," she said vaguely.

Despite the residual effects of the coma, Father Patrick was still quite shrewd. "I would imagine having impure thoughts about a priest must have been very _confusing_ indeed."

"Yes," she admitted, averting her eyes in embarrassment. "But he fooled me—fooled us all. I take my religion seriously, Father, and he—"

He interrupted her with a weakly raised finger.

"I can see that you do. And if that is the case, Teresa, you must let go of your anger and forgive him."

Troubled green eyes met understanding blue, held, as she heard the truth in his words. To her dismay, she felt tears beginning to well. "I—I don't know if I can. I know that I should, but I'm not sure I'm ready to let this go. What he did was blasphemous. What kind of a man pretends to be a priest?"

"A desperate man. A man seeking his rightful place in the world. A man feeling trapped by his circumstances. I don't really know _this_ Patrick, but I think God gifted me with good judgment, and from what little I know of this young man, I don't believe he was trying to hurt anyone. He wants to do the right thing, but perhaps he doesn't know how. Perhaps he needs someone to guide him in the way he should go, to offer him forgiveness, understanding. A second chance."

She felt a brief spark of hope that maybe all was not lost. But Teresa had a streak of stubborn pride when it came to doing the right thing. The main reasons she became a cop were her love of order, of following the law, following God. Patrick Jane had corrupted her moral code, had brought her down to his level with his passionate kisses and the sparkle in his eye. She supposed she was just as angry with herself as she was with him.

"I'm not sure I'm the person to do that," she said sadly.

The priest's smile was gentle. "Maybe not, I don't know. But I do know that you must forgive yourself before you can forgive others, and that can take time."

"Yes, Father," she replied obediently

"Now, as far as Patrick Jane is concerned, I will not be pressing charges for his borrowing my car, nor do I mind his staying at the rectory in my place. The church is for those who seek refuge, after all. And if he has done no one any true harm, has violated none of man's laws, let me handle any laws he might have violated against God."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? But Father, he impersonated you, defrauded the entire community—"

"To what end, Teresa? If he has given any comfort or pleasure to the parish, then he must not be all bad. But if the _parish_ cannot forgive him, then maybe I've come to the wrong place." Father Patrick had a stubborn streak of his own, apparently.

She found herself shaking her head and smiling ruefully at him, recognizing a kindred spirit. "Okay. Since there is no evidence he has stolen anything, I suppose I can talk to my chief about letting him go."

The priest nodded his approval. "Very good. And if you don't mind, would you ask Patrick to come and see me for a visit once he's released. We have some unfinished business, he and I."

"I'll see that he gets the message, Father, though I wouldn't get my hopes up."

"Ah, my child, I think Patrick Jane might surprise both of us yet…"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa lay beneath him at last, and he reveled in her softness, in her sweetness. He kissed her deeply, felt the rapid flutter of her heart beneath her milky white breasts. He moved to fill her body with his, to sink into her warmth like a drowning man. She said his name.

"Jane."

 _No, it's Patrick._

"Jane!"

He jerked awake, to find it was his own heart that was pounding so hard, that he he was not in a luxurious bed making love to Teresa Lisbon. What was most disconcerting, his dream Teresa had spoken in the voice of Kimball Cho.

He turned bleary, resentful eyes to his jailer, who was now busy unlocking the door.

"You can go," said Cho, pulling the barred door open for him.

He was definitely awake now. He sat up on his cot.

"What?"

"Charges were dropped. You can go."

Jane got up, automatically running his hand through his curls to smooth them down. He picked up the borrowed overcoat he'd been using as a blanket.

"What happened?" he asked, following Cho back into the office area. Cho opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a zip-top bag containing Jane's wallet, loose change, and Father Patrick's keys.

Jane pocketed his belongings gratefully.

"The real priest woke up," said Cho. "Confirmed you didn't steal his car. He's not pressing charges, and neither is the church, so you can go."

"Oh. Okay."

This was good news, indeed.

"So where do I go now?"

Cho shrugged. "Beats me. But until the Washington Bureau of Investigation gets here, you can't leave town. You're a witness to a serious crime."

Jane's eyes widened. He'd have to testify against Jed Carson, would have to sit before a judge and implicate the wealthy and powerful Roger Corpsman of hiring a hitman, a man who might in turn get him thrown back in jail for fraud, _again_. So much for his plan to catch the next bus out of this town. Besides, he was through running.

"Where's Lieutenant Lisbon?" he asked.

"Out," Cho replied succinctly. "But I was told to pass on the message that Father Patrick wants to see you at the hospital."

"Really? Well, can I get a ride there?"

Cho picked up the receiver of his black desk phone and offered it to him.

"Call a cab."

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

"Glad to see you're gonna be okay," said Jane sincerely. "I thought you were going to die on me, and that would have looked really bad for me."

Father Patrick grinned at his dry humor. "Well, happy I didn't leave you with that mess, though I've heard you managed to get into a pretty big mess all on your own. You've been a busy boy, Patrick."

Jane had the grace to blush. "You've heard then? I'm sorry, Father, more than I can say. And thanks for not pressing charges for the car. At the time, I didn't have much choice."

Father Patrick nodded. "I know, son. Least I could do, after you saved my life by getting me here. So what are your plans now? Moving on?"

Jane sat down heavily in the chair beside his hospital bed. "I wish. Cops said I can't leave town yet, not after the shooting and all."

The priest looked surprised. "What shooting?"

"You hadn't heard?"

Jane proceeded then to tell the priest everything from the time he left him and the hospital to the earlier events of this day. He skipped over the parts where he'd kissed the local cop senseless a couple of times, but Jane could tell Father Patrick had deduced the gist of things.

"Where will you stay?" asked the priest.

"I don't have much money, Father. I'll probably see if there's room at the homeless shelter."

"Nonsense. Go back and stay in the rectory for as long as you need. I'm going to be in here for a few more days, but then I'm going to need someone to help me get around until I'm back on my feet. You interested in the job? I can probably pay you enough to get you a bus ticket when the police say you can leave."

Jane didn't have to think about it. He'd had no idea how he was going to come up with the money to get out of here, and with the cops watching him like a hawk, there'd be no chances for any con games. Plus, he admitted to himself, this would give him the opportunity to see Teresa again—if she was interested in speaking to him again.

"I would be happy to, Father. But what will the Reverend Mother say? She's gonna shit a brick when—sorry Father. I mean to say, she's not going to be too happy with me after what I did. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole town shows up at the rectory with pitchforks and a noose."

Father Patrick laughed. "Don't you worry about that. I'll call her and explain the situation. You're right; you'll probably be the town pariah for a while, but there's still a chance for you to prove yourself to these people. Teresa tells me you did a pretty good job being a priest. Maybe you should reconsider your current vocation…"

"I could never be a priest, Father. No offense, but a woman will always smell better to me than candlewax and incense."

Both men smiled.

"One woman in particular, I gather."

"Yes. But it's going to be even harder to get her forgiveness than the Reverend Mother's. Frankly, I don't blame Teresa for hating me; I really did a number on her."

"If she's worth it, you'll do whatever it takes to earn that forgiveness."

Jane felt an unfamiliar wave of emotion. He met the priest's eyes. "She _is_ worth it."

"Then you must fight for her. And from my brief meeting with Lieutenant Lisbon, you'll have a hard row to hoe with her. You could start by becoming the kind of man worthy of her love. Let her see that you are willing and able to change. Be patient, and if it's God's will, she'll come to you."

"You really think so, Father?"

"I do, Patrick."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa picked up the ringing phone on her desk. Now that Jane was out of lockup, she could have gone home, enjoyed the rest of the holiday, but instead she'd let Cho leave, and stayed on at the police department. There was a lot of paperwork to do when there was a shooting.

"Police Department," she said into the phone.

There was a moment of hesitation on the other end of the line, and instinctively, Teresa tensed. Then she heard a familiar voice, and her stomach turned over and promptly filled with butterflies.

"Teresa? It's Patrick."

"I know," she said, then wanted to kick herself. She could hear the smile in his voice at that small victory.

"Kimball told me to call the station when I knew where I'd be staying. Father Patrick said I could stay at the rectory."

"You're kidding," she said, in spite of herself.

"What can I say? He's a very forgiving guy."

"Well, we can't all be priests, can we?"

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Are you okay, Teresa?" he asked.

"I will be, if I never have to see _you_ again." She didn't even sound convincing to her own ears. She hated how much she still wanted him, how secretly glad she was that he'd be staying in town, at least for a little while.

He chuckled. "You don't mean that."

"Good bye, Patrick Jane."

"See you around, Lieutenant Lisbon."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Within the next few days, the state police came, took Jane's statement, and took Jed Carson with them, who had been released from the hospital. He told the WBI about the last known location of his father, but when they sent someone to Portland, Alex Jane was nowhere to be found. In exchange for his full cooperation in bringing down Roger Corpsman, they offered Jane full immunity.

Jane continued on at the rectory, trying to earn the nuns' forgiveness by showing up to work at the soup kitchen, continuing to keep the church walkways clear, and fixing the toilet in the men's room when it wouldn't flush. Sister Grace was happy to see him, had already forgiven him days before, and soon the Reverend Mother stopped frowning as much when she saw him.

Church services had been put on hold, but the faithful still came to the church to light candles and to pray. One evening, he looked into the chapel to see the back of an achingly familiar head. He watched her from the rear of the church as she knelt and prayed, then sat in a pew facing the statue of Christ on the cross. There was no one else in the chapel. Did he dare disturb her? Pulse racing, he walked down the center aisle and sat quietly beside her.

Sensing his presence, she turned to look at him, flushed prettily, then turned back to look at Jesus.

"Hi," he said softly.

"Hi."

"It's good to see you."

"I figured you'd be long gone by now."

"Father Patrick should be released from the hospital tomorrow. He asked me to stay on and help him until he gets back on his feet. Then I thought I'd get a job. Summer said the diner's going to need a new bus boy soon."

He could tell he'd genuinely surprised her, though she said nothing in response.

"I heard there was a junior college in the next town over," he continued, undaunted by her silence. "I never graduated from high school, but I got my GED a long time ago, took the SAT for fun. I figured I'd work through winter and spring, save my money, and enroll in the summer term."

He was gazing intently at her now, aching for some sort of sign that she cared, that she saw what he was trying to do. For her. For _them_.

"Studying what?" she asked in a whisper, and he felt his cheeks warm with pleasure.

"Psychology, maybe. I've always been fascinated by how the mind works. How we think. How we feel. How we _love_."

He placed his hand gently over hers where it rested on the wooden bench. He felt her tense, but she didn't move her hand away. As signs went, he figured that was a pretty damn good one.

He followed her gaze to Jesus, offering a silent prayer of thanks.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Building trust and seeking forgiveness were patient jobs, Jane found, and before meeting Teresa, he had never been a patient man. After their meeting in the chapel, she'd come back to work at the soup kitchen, began coming more regularly to church, and when Father Patrick was well enough to assume his duties, she rarely missed Mass. And neither did Jane. She would speak to him on those occasions, but she was reserved, distant, guarding her heart as she should. But she still came. Once, he spied her going into the confessional, and his throat tightened, and he felt restless as he busied himself changing the burned down votives in their holders. She emerged ten minutes later, her eyes red from crying. She'd left the church without saying goodbye to him, and he felt as if the floor had opened up beneath his feet.

He didn't dare ask Father Patrick about her visit, knowing he wouldn't have spoken to him about it anyway, so he was left to worry and wonder, trapped in the purgatory of his own making.

When he started working at the diner, he would see her there too, and she would blush and say hello, but little else beyond basic pleasantries. He felt her eyes on him though, watching as he cleared a neighboring table of its dirty dishes. He felt humbled by this job, knew he was beneath her, a college-educated police officer, poised now to be chief upon Minelli's retirement, though she was too kind to ever make him feel that way on purpose. Classes would start soon, and then she would see, he thought, wiping off the table with a washrag.

When the weather grew warm, he noticed she began walking to and from church. One Sunday, he summoned the courage to offer to walk her home. To his surprise, she agreed.

They spoke of his classes— _English Composition, Algebra_ , and _Introduction to Psychology_ —and she of her new role as Chief of Police, the position she'd tied up when she'd shot Jed Carson. Their conversation was pleasant and easy, and while their physical attraction simmered just beneath the surface, he forced himself to leave her unkissed at her front door. He offered to walk her again the next Sunday, and soon he didn't even have to ask, just fell in step beside her after church as they strolled, him in his rolled up shirtsleeves and suit vest, past the well-manicured lawns and blooming flowerbeds along the way, her small hand in his.

One Sunday afternoon, six months after his stint as a priest, she invited him to stay for lemonade. They continued their lively conversation on her front porch swing, sipping their cold drinks in the summer warmth. As he watched her dimpled laugh at a story from his carnival days, he found he never wanted to leave. He set down his empty glass. Her laughter died away as she saw his serious expression, saw the love in his eyes that he'd tried so hard to hide so he wouldn't scare her away. He wasn't hiding it anymore.

He watched her throat as she swallowed, watched her green eyes grow smoky with desire. He leaned over and kissed her, tasted the sugary lemon on her mouth. She drew in a shaky breath, and he slipped out his tongue to trace the seam of her lips. She opened for him, and felt Jane felt his heart seize in his chest, then pound like a bass drum in his head. She let him deepen the kiss, let him slide his hands over her bare forearms, up to her shoulders, into her silken hair, while the swing rocked gently beneath them.

They kissed that way for what seemed like hours, the heat of the day adding to the heated passion between them. He felt like a teenager, waiting for her daddy to run him off as they made out just before curfew. But there was no father, and Teresa wasn't sending him away. He knew he could get her to invite him inside her house, could while away the afternoon making love in her upstairs bedroom, but the months of denial had taught him patience, and he slowly began withdrawing from her, ratcheting down his desire.

"What's wrong?" she asked shakily, as he gently kissed the tip of her nose and sat once more against the swing back. He took her hand, brought it to his lips.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I'm just trying to show you that I respect you, that I'm not going to push you into doing anything you aren't ready for."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm not sixteen, Patrick."

He chuckled, his eyes dropping to the sweet décolletage of her flowery summer dress. "Boy, don't I know it. But I've tried so hard these past few months to earn your trust back; I don't want to screw up my progress."

She watched him silently, appraisingly. She reached up to his hair to twirl a curl gently around her finger. It made her smile. He'd let it grow out a bit, and he had sensed she liked it that way.

"You've changed," she said suddenly, and she didn't just mean his hair. "So you don't have to tiptoe around me so much anymore."

"I don't?"

Her eyes grew solemn. "I've forgiven you, Patrick. What you did was stupid and reckless and hurtful, but I know you regret it. I know you've been trying to become a better person, and I—I'm proud of you."

She may as well have given him a Medal of Honor, no more touched would he have been in that moment.

"Thank you," he said humbly. "That's all I've ever wanted."

She pressed her lips back to his, and he returned her passion, though where he found the restraint not to carry her into the house he didn't know.

"I should go," he said. "But I'd like to see you again soon. Maybe take you out on a real date. I have a little money saved…"

Her eyelids were heavy with desire, her eyes glittering with obvious invitation. "Okay, but you're welcome to stay. Maybe we could go inside for a while, get out of this heat."

He grinned. "You could tempt a priest, woman," he joked unthinkingly. To his delight, she laughed.

"I suppose you would know," she said. "But the offer still stands."

He kissed her smiling mouth softly, then rose from the swing, leaving it to sway gently in his wake.

"I'll call you when I find out my schedule for the week," he said. "Then I will definitely take you out. Think of where you want to go. The diner. McDonald's. Applebee's. The sky's the limit."

She laughed again, and he knew he'd never seen anything so beautiful.

"Okay, Daddy Warbucks, I'll give it some thought."

He walked down her front porch steps, but halfway down the walkway, he turned to look at her, stopping dead in his tracks. She was still sitting on the swing, but she'd slipped off her sandals and crossed her smooth, bare legs, causing her skirt to ride up tantalizingly.

"Sweet Jesus," he said, admiring the sexy picture she made.

"'Thou shalt not take the Lord thy God in vain,'" she chastised dutifully, a twinkle in her eye.

He shook his head dramatically to clear it, and he penitently recited the rosary aloud as he walked reluctantly away from her. Her soft laughter echoed in his mind all the way back to the rectory.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa was a constant hum in his blood, and he could not stop thinking about the taste of her lips, tart and sweet from the lemonade, could not forget his last sight of her on the porch, so lovely, her mahogany hair playing around her shoulders in the warm breeze.

That evening, when Father Patrick was reading in his chair in the living room, Jane found he could not sit still. He looked longingly at the comfortable leather couch, his bed for the past several months, but he knew sleep would not come, so he wandered to the kitchen, made himself some tea. Even that didn't soothe him. He went to Father Patrick's bookshelves, but found nothing that caught his interest, even though Jane had stocked them lately with library books and thrift store finds. He had a Psychology test in two days, but knew he would be hopeless at focusing enough to study, so he didn't even try. Besides, "studying" meant reading through his notes once; he had plenty of time for that later.

At his third pass near Father Patrick's chair, the priest set his book in his lap and stared in amusement at his housemate.

"You're jumpier than a jackrabbit, Patrick. What's going on with you?"

He stopped, took a nervous drink of his tea, cringed at his scalded tongue.

"I'm sorry, Father. I—" He hesitated, thinking of the awkwardness of discussing sexual frustration with a priest. "It's Teresa. She's forgiven me."

Father Patrick smiled. "Wonderful news! I told you patience would pay off."

"Well, it has, and I'm stoked, really, but…well, let's just say my patience is being tested in new and much more interesting ways."

Father Patrick nodded in understanding. He hadn't always been a priest.

"Ah, I see. We are always being tested, my son."

Abruptly, Jane set down his teacup. "I'm going for a walk."

"Sounds like a good idea." But as he opened the door, the priest gave him one last bit of advice: "Be very careful, Patrick."

Jane caught his eye, and he knew what Father Patrick was telling him, just as the priest knew Jane's intentions.

"I will, Father. Don't wait up."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Of course, he wound up once more on Teresa's front porch. Inside, a lamp still glowed, so he knew she was awake. This wasn't the first night he'd gone out for a walk past her house, and he knew that she turned her lights off promptly at ten if she was working the next day. It was really pathetic, how well he knew this.

But this night, instead of lurking like a stalker, he knocked upon her door.

He waited as she turned on the porch light, peered out the peephole, and unlocked both locks on her door. His heart was slamming against his chest by the time she opened it and stared at him with a knowing half-smile.

"Hey," she said.

"I'm in love with you," he said in a rush that ended in an abrupt full stop. She hadn't been expecting that.

"You'd probably better come inside then," she said.

He took one step over the threshold and gathered her into his arms, his mouth fusing to hers as he kicked the door closed behind them. They didn't make it to her bedroom, for he pulled her down to the floor in her living room. So much for patience and restraint, he thought ironically, as he unbuttoned the tiny buttons at the front of her dress with shaking hands. Then he was cupping her full, firm breasts, his thumbs playing over her hardened nipples while she made appreciative little cries into his mouth.

From there things went very quickly, the months of holding back coming out in both of them in a rush of kisses, caresses, and murmured words of love. He barely took the time to rip the condom wrapper open before he buried himself deep inside her body. She rose to meet his every thrust, her green eyes fastened on his in the lamplight. He was immediately sorry when it was over too soon, and he rolled off of her, both of them breathing heavily as they stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

She lay on the floor where he'd left her, the skirt of her dress bunched up around her waist, panties hanging on one ankle, her bodice gaping open to expose her heaving breasts. His own shirt was unbuttoned halfway, vest thrown impatiently to the floor, his dress pants from church pulled just low enough so he could get his boxers down. Jane glanced now at their mutual state of near-undress and felt instantly ashamed of himself.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You deserved better than a quickie on the living room floor."

She turned her head and smiled at him. "I invited you in, didn't I?"

"Well, yes, but—"

" _But_ , I choose to take this as a compliment. I'll tell you a secret, Patrick: there isn't a woman alive who doesn't secretly desire to be ravaged on the floor by a man so hot for her he can't wait long enough to make it to the bed."

He laughed. "Tell me that again when the rug burn starts stinging."

She grimaced and shifted a little on the hard floor. "The jury's still out on that one, I guess."

He turned on his side, one hand supporting his head as he gazed down at his handiwork. She looked utterly wanton and inexpressibly sexy, and he found he wanted her again. Her words had shifted his perception, and suddenly he looked very proud of himself. He'd actually made her scream, as he recalled. He bent to kiss her lips. "Consider yourself ravaged, Chief Lisbon."

"It was my pleasure," she whispered against his mouth. "But I do have a bed, you know."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, before he feasted on her swollen lips once more.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later, they both lay completely naked and sated in her bed upstairs. There was something to be said about a soft mattress, Jane thought drowsily, as he kissed the top of Lisbon's head. She was sleeping deeply at his side, her hand on his chest, one shapely leg draped over his, and he'd never felt more comfortable in his life.

His life before he'd gotten off the bus in Cannon River seemed like it had belonged to another man, and it felt so good to have control of his own destiny for once. He could see a future now beyond his dad's next scam, beyond the next mark, and he vowed he would never take advantage of another gullible human being again. He would be a psychologist one day, he thought in wonder. Maybe by then he and Teresa would be married, and he would open his own practice in Cannon River. They would have children—he loved children—and they would raise them in the church to be good, righteous people, with their mother's kindness, his insightfulness, and Father Patrick's wisdom.

He would live the rest of his life striving to be the best husband and father he could be, and his family would never have reason to doubt his love and commitment.

Teresa stirred a little against him, and he sensed without looking that she was awake.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked him. "If it's round three you want, you're out of luck, pal. I have to work tomorrow."

"Not that I'm not up to the task, my dear, but I was actually feeling a bit philosophical."

"Contemplating the mysteries of the universe?"

"No, just the mysteries of you and me."

She kissed his chest. "There's no mystery there, Patrick. Not anymore."

His arm tightened around her, and he remembered earlier when she'd whispered in his ear how much she loved him. He'd always laughed when people said in movies that their lover completed them. Hearing Teresa say those words had made him feel whole for the first time in his life, and he would never again mock that sentiment.

"The future though—that still a mystery," he said, and she must have felt him tense, for she looked up at his face, her pretty eyebrows knit.

"I don't want life to become too predictable, but I think we can safely say that no matter what happens, we will love each other for the rest of our lives, and that there is nothing we can't forgive."

"I might screw all of this up, though. My last name is Jane, you know."

"I won't let you. As long as I have two fists and a Glock, I'll keep you in line," she said with a small smile. He knew she was only partly teasing, and it felt good that he was just a little scared by that.

"And handcuffs," he added mischievously, rolling on his side and pulling her closer. "At some point in our mysterious future, you might need to employ a pair of those."

"Only if you're being very, very bad."

Her hand had wandered lower to caress his burgeoning hardness, and he drew in a sharp breath. "Chief Lisbon, what would Father Patrick say?"

"He would say, 'now that you've corrupted her virtue, I expect you to make an honest woman of her.'"

"Oh, my love," he said, kissing her cheek, "you've made an honest man of _me_ ; it's only fair that I return the favor."

For the first time in her career, Teresa was late for work the next morning.

 **THE END**

 **A/N: Thanks so much for your kind reviews of this fic. I have read and adored every lovely one of them. The overriding theme of this story has been forgiveness. I pray we can all find that spirit in our own hearts today.**


End file.
